Horace, Book I. Ode Ix.

Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow,The groves beneath their fleecy burden bow,The streams congeal'd, forget to flow,Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pileOf fuel on the hearth;Broach the best cask and make old winter smileWith seasonable mirth.

This be our part -- let Heaven dispose the rest;If Jove command, the winds shall sleep,That now wage war upon the foamy deep,And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.

E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may,When to-morrow's passed away,We at least shall have to say,We have lived another day;Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er,Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more.

By Moschus

I slept when Venus enter'd: to my bedA Cupid in her beauteous hand she led,A bashful seeming boy, and thus she said:'Shepherd, receive my little one! I bringAn untaught love, whom thou must teach to sing.'She said, and left him. I, suspecting nought,Many a sweet strain my subtle pupil taught,How reed to reed Pan first with osier bound,How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest sound,How Hermes gave the lute, and how the quireOf Phoebus owe to Phoebus' self the lyre.Such were my themes; my themes nought heeded heBut ditties sang of amorous sort to me.The pangs that mortals and immortals proveFrom Venus' influence and the darts of love.Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught;His lessons I retain'd, he mine forgot.

Stanzas On The Late Indecent Liberties Taken With The Remains Of The Great Milton

On The Death Of Mrs. Throckmorton's Bullfinch

Ye Nymphs, if e'er your eyes were red With tears o'er hapless favourites shed,Oh, share Maria's grief!Her favourite, even in his cage,(What will not hunger's cruel rage?)Assassined by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vines among,The egg was laid from which he sprung,And though by nature muteOr only with a whistle blessed,Well-taught he all the sounds expressed Of flageolet or flute.

The honours of his ebon poll Were brighter than the sleekest mole,His bosom of the hueWith which Aurora decks the skies,When piping winds shall soon ariseTo sweep away the dew.

Above, below, in all the house,Dire foe alike of bird and mouse,No cat had leave to dwell;And Bully's cage supported stoodOn props of smoothest-shaven wood,Large built and latticed well.

Well latticed,-- but the grate, alas!Not rough with wire of steel or brass,For Bully's plumage sake,But smooth with wands from Ouse's side,With which, when neatly peeled and dried,The swains their baskets make.

Night veiled the pole: all seemed secure:When, led by instinct sharp and sure,Subsistence to provide,A beast forth sallied on the scout,Long backed, long tailed, with whiskered snout,And badger-coloured hide.

He, entering at the study door,Its ample area 'gan explore;And something in the windConjectured, sniffing round and round,Better than all the books he found,Food chiefly for the mind.

Just then, by adverse fate impressed,A dream disturbed poor Bully's rest;In sleep he seemed to viewA rat fast clinging to the cage,And, screaming at the sad presage,Awoke and found it true.

For, aided both by ear and scent,Right to his mark the monster went,--Ah, Muse! forbear to speak Minute the horrors that ensued;His teeth were strong, the cage was wood--He left poor Bully's beak.

Oh, he had made that too his prey!That beak, whence issued many a layOf such mellifluous tone,Might have repaid him well, I wote,For silencing so sweet a throat,Fast struck within his own.

Maria weeps, -- the Muses mourn;--So, when by Bacchanalians torn,On Thracian Hebrus' sideThe tree-enchanter Orpheus fell,His head alone remained to tellThe cruel death he died.

Elegy Iii. Anno Aet. 17. On The Death Of The Bishop Of Winchester (Translated From Milton)

Silent I sat, dejected, and alone,Making in thought the public woes my own,When, first, arose the image in my breastOf England's sufferings by that scourge, the pest.How death, his fun'ral torch and scythe in hand,Ent'ring the lordliest mansions of the land,Has laid the gem-illumin'd palace low,And level'd tribes of Nobles at a blow.I, next, deplor'd the famed fraternal pairToo soon to ashes turn'd and empty air, The Heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skiesAll Belgia saw, and follow'd with her sighs;But Thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most,Winton's chief shepherd and her worthiest boast;Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said--Death, next in pow'r to Him who rules the Dead!Is't not enough that all the woodlands yieldTo thy fell force, and ev'ry verdant field,That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine,And ev'n the Cyprian Queen's own roses, pine,That oaks themselves, although the running rillSuckle their roots, must wither at thy will,That all the winged nations, even thoseWhose heav'n-directed flight the Future shows,And all the beasts that in dark forests stray,And all the herds of Proteus are thy prey?Ah envious! arm'd with pow'rs so unconfinedWhy stain thy hands with blood of Human kind?Why take delight, with darts that never roam,To chase a heav'n-born spirit from her home? While thus I mourn'd, the star of evening stood,Now newly ris'n, above the western flood,And Phoebus from his morning-goal againHad reach'd the gulphs of the Iberian main.I wish'd repose, and, on my couch reclinedTook early rest, to night and sleep resign'd,When--Oh for words to paint what I beheld!I seem'd to wander in a spacious field,Where all the champain glow'd with purple lightLike that of sun-rise on the mountain height; Flow'rs over all the field, of ev'ry hueThat ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew,Nor Chloris, with whom amtrous Zephyrs play,E'er dress'd Alcinous' gardens half so gay.A silver current, like the Tagus, roll'dO'er golden sands, but sands of purer gold,With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flow'rs,With airs awaken'd under rosy bow'rs.Such poets feign, irradiated all o'erThe sun's abode on India's utmost shore.While I, that splendour and the mingled shadeOf fruitful vines, with wonder fixt survey'd,At once, with looks that beam'd celestial grace,The Seer of Winton stood before my face.His snowy vesture's hem descending lowHis golden sandals swept, and pure as snowNew-fallen shone the mitre on his brow.Where'er he trod, a tremulous sweet soundOf gladness shook the flow'ry scene around:Attendant angels clap their starry wings, The trumpet shakes the sky, all aether rings,Each chaunts his welcome, folds him to his breast,And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest.'Ascend, my son! thy Father's kingdom share,My son! henceforth be free'd from ev'ry care.'So spake the voice, and at its tender closeWith psaltry's sound th'Angelic band arose.Then night retired, and chased by dawning dayThe visionary bliss pass'd all away.I mourn'd my banish'd sleep with fond concern,Frequent, to me may dreams like this return.

The Task: Book V, The Winter Morning Walk (Excerpts)

'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb Ascending, fires th' horizon: while the clouds, That crowd away before the driving wind, More ardent as the disk emerges more, Resemble most some city in a blaze, Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, And, tinging all with his own rosy hue, From ev'ry herb and ev'ry spiry blade Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. Mine, spindling into longitude immense, In spite of gravity, and sage remark That I myself am but a fleeting shade, Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance I view the muscular proportion'd limb Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pair, As they design'd to mock me, at my side Take step for step; and, as I near approach The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall, Prepost'rous sight! the legs without the man. The verdure of the plain lies buried deep Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents, And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest, Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine Conspicuous, and, in bright apparel clad And fledg'd with icy feathers, nod superb. The cattle mourn in corners where the fence Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder; not like hung'ring man, Fretful if unsupply'd; but silent, meek, And patient of the slow-pac'd swain's delay. He from the stack carves out th' accustom'd load, Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft, His broad keen knife into the solid mass: Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, With such undeviating and even force He severs it away: no needless care, Lest storms should overset the leaning pile Deciduous, or its own unbalanc'd weight....

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume, And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes Their progress in the road of science; blinds The eyesight of discovery, and begets, In those that suffer it, a sordid mind Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit To be the tenant of man's noble form. Thee therefore, still, blameworthy as thou art, With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd By public exigence till annual food Fails for the craving hunger of the state, Thee I account still happy, and the chief Among the nations, seeing thou art free, My native nook of earth! . . ....

But there is yet a liberty unsung By poets, and by senators unprais'd, Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pow'rs Of earth and hell confederate take away; A liberty which persecution, fraud, Oppression, prisons, have no pow'r to bind; Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more. 'Tis liberty of heart, deriv'd from Heav'n, Bought with his blood who gave it to mankind, And seal'd with the same token. It is held By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure By th' unimpeachable and awful oath And promise of a God. His other gifts All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his, And are august, but this transcends them all.

Addressed To Miss Macartney, Afterwards Mrs. Greville, On Reading The Prayer For Indifference

The Retired Cat

A poet's cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick-- Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mould [lang f]philosophique[lang e], Or else she learn'd it of her master. Sometimes ascending, debonair, An apple-tree or lofty pear, Lodg'd with convenience in the fork, She watch'd the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty wat'ring-pot; There, wanting nothing save a fan To seem some nymph in her sedan, Apparell'd in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court.

But love of change, it seems, has place Not only in our wiser race; Cats also feel, as well as we, That passion's force, and so did she. Her climbing, she began to find, Expos'd her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within: She therefore wish'd instead of those Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton with her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode.

A drawer, it chanc'd, at bottom lin'd With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use-- A drawer impending o'er the rest, Half-open in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there; Puss with delight beyond expression Survey'd the scene, and took possession. Recumbent at her ease ere long, And lull'd by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclin'd The chambermaid, and shut it fast; By no malignity impell'd, But all unconscious whom it held.

Awaken'd by the shock, cried Puss, "Was ever cat attended thus! The open drawer was left, I see, Merely to prove a nest for me. For soon as I was well compos'd, Then came the maid, and it was clos'd. How smooth these kerchiefs, and how sweet! Oh, what a delicate retreat! I will resign myself to rest Till Sol, declining in the west, Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, Susan will come and let me out."

The evening came, the sun descended, And puss remain'd still unattended. The night roll'd tardily away (With her indeed 'twas never day), The sprightly morn her course renew'd, The evening gray again ensued, And puss came into mind no more Than if entomb'd the day before. With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room, She now presag'd approaching doom, Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd, Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd.

That night, by chance, the poet watching Heard an inexplicable scratching; His noble heart went pit-a-pat And to himself he said, "What's that?" He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied; Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd Something imprison'd in the chest, And, doubtful what, with prudent care Resolv'd it should continue there. At length a voice which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears, Consol'd him, and dispell'd his fears: He left his bed, he trod the floor, He 'gan in haste the drawers explore, The lowest first, and without stop The rest in order to the top; For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it come to light, In ev'ry cranny but the right. Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete As erst with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond apprehension A theme for all the world's attention, But modest, sober, cured of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for a place of rest Anything rather than a chest. Then stepp'd the poet into bed, With this reflection in his head:MORAL

Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence. The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around in all that's done Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation.

The 9th Satire Of Book I. Of Horace : The Description Of An Impertinent. Adapted To The Present Times

Sauntering along the street one day,On trifles musing by the way,Up steps a free familiar wight;(I scarcely knew the man by sight.)'Carlos (he cried), your hand, my dear!Gad, I rejoice to meet you here!Pray heaven I see you well!' 'So, so; Even well enough as times now go.The same good wishes, sir, to you.''Sir, you have business, I suppose?''My business, sir, is quickly done,'Tis but to make my merit known.Sir, I have read ---- ' 'O learned sir,You and your learning I revere.' Then, sweating with anxiety,And sadly longing to get free,Gods, how I scampered, scuffled for't,Ran, halted, ran again, stopped short,Beckoned my boy, and pulled him near,And whispered nothing in his ear.Teased with his loose unjointed chat,'What street is this? What house is that?' O Harlow, how I envied theeThy unabashed effrontery,Who darest a foe with freedom blame,And call a coxcomb by his name!When I returned him answer none,Obligingly the fool ran on,'I see you're dismally distressed,Would give the world to be released,But, by your leave, sir, I shall stillStick to your skirts, do what you will.Pray which way does your journey tend?''Oh, 'tis a tedious way, my friend,Across the Thames, the Lord knows where;I would not trouble you so far.''Well, I'm at leisure to attend you.''Are you? (thought I) the deil befriend you!'No ass with double panniers racked,Oppressed, o'erladen, broken-backed,E'er looked a thousandth part so dullAs I, nor half so like a fool.'Sir, I know little of myself(Proceeds the pert conceited elf),If Gray or Mason you will deemThan me more worthy your esteem.Poems I write by folios, As fast as other men write prose.Then I can sing so loud, so clear,That Beard cannot with me compare.In dancing too I all surpass,Not Cooke can move with such a grace.'Here I made shift, with much ado, To interpose a word or two.--'Have you no parents, sir, no friends,Whose welfare on your own depends?''Parents, relations, say you? No. They're all disposed of long ago.'--'Happy to be no more perplexed!My fate too threatens, I go next.Dispatch me, sir, 'tis now too late,Alas! to struggle with my fate!Well, I'm convinced my time is come.When young, a gipsy told my doom; The beldame shook her palsied head,As she perused my palm, and said,'Of poison, pestilence, or war,Gout, stone, defluxion, or catarrh,You have no reason to beware.Beware the coxcomb's idle prate; Chiefly, my son, beware of that;Be sure, when you behold him, flyOut of all earshot, or you dide!'To Rufus' Hall we now draw near,Where he was summoned to appear,Refute the charge the plaintiff brought,Or suffer judgment by default.'For heaven's sake, if you love me, waitOne moment! I'll be with you straight.'Glad of a plausible pretence--'Sir, I must beg you to dispenseWith my attendance in the court.My legs will surely suffer for't.'--'Nay, prithee, Carlos, stop awhile!''Faith, sir, in law I have no skill.Besides, I have no time to spare,I must be going, you know where.''Well, I protest, I'm doubtful now,Whether to leave my suit or you!''Me, without scruple! (I reply)Me, by all means, sir!' -- 'No, not I.' Allons, Monsieur!' 'Twere vain (you know)To strive with a victorious foe.So I reluctantly obey,And follow, where he leads the way.'You and Newcastle are so close;Still hand and glove, sir, I suppose.''Newcastle (let me tell you, sir,)Has not his equal every where.''Well. There indeed your fortune's made!Faith, sir, you understand your trade.Would you but give me your good word!Just introduce me to my lord. I should serve charmingly by wayOf second fiddle, as they say:What think you, sir? 'twere a good jest,'Slife, we should quickly scout the rest.'--'Sir, you mistake the matter far,We have no second fiddles there.''Richer than I some folks may be: More learned, but it hurts not me.Friends though he has of different kind,Each has his proper place assigned.''Strange matters these alleged by you!'--'Strange they may be, but they are true.'--'Well, then, I vow, 'tis mighty clever,Now I long ten times more than everTo be advanced extremely nearOne of his shining character.Have but the will -- there wants no more,'Tis plain enough you have the power.His easy temper (that's the worst)He knows, and is so shy at first.But such a cavalier as you-- Lord, sir, you'll quickly bring him to!Well; if I fail in my design,Sir, it shall be no fault of mine.If by the saucy servile tribeDenied, what think you of a bribe?Shut out to-day, not die with sorrow,But try my luck again to-morrow.Never attempt to visit himBut at the most convenient time,Attend him on each levee day,And there my humble duty pay.Labour, like this, our want supplies;And they must stoop, who mean to rise.'While thus he wittingly harangued,For which you'll guess I wished him hanged,Campley, a friend of mine, came by,Who knew his humour more than I. We stop, salute, and -- 'why so fast,Friend Carlos? Whither all this haste?'Fired at the thoughts of a reprieve,I pinch him, pull him, twitch his sleeve,Nod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout,Do everything but speak plain out:While he, sad dog, from the beginningDetermined to mistake my meaning,Instead of pitying my curse,By jeering made it ten times worse.'Campley, to what secret (pray!) was thatYou wanted to communicate?''I recollect. But 'tis no matter.Carlos, we'll talk of that hereafter.E'en let the secret rest. 'Twill tellAnother time, sir, just as well.'Was ever such a dismal day?Unlucky cur, he steals away,And leaves me, half bereft of life,At mercy of the butcher's knife;When sudden, shouting from afar,See his antagonist appear!The bailiff seized him quick as thought.'Ho, Mr. Scoundrel! Are you caught?Sir, you are witness to the arrest.''Aye, marry, sir, I'll do my best.'The mob huzaas. Away they trudge,Culprit and all, before the judge.Meanwhile I luckily enoughThanks to Apollo) got clear off.

The Salad. By Virgil

The winter night now well nigh worn away,The wakeful cock proclaimed approaching day,When Simulus, poor tenant of a farmOf narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm, Yawned, stretched his limbs, and anxious to provideAgainst the pangs of hunger unsupplied,By slow degrees his tattered bed forsook,And poking in the dark, explored the nookWhere embers slept with ashes heaped around,And with burnt fingers'-ends the treasure found.It chanced that from a brand beneath his noseSure proof of latent fire, some smoke arose;When trimming with a pin the incrusted tow,And stooping it towards the coals below,He toils, with cheeks distended, to exciteThe lingering flame, and gains at length a light.With prudent heed he spreads his hand beforeThe quivering lamp, and opes his granary door.Small was his stock, but taking for the day,A measured stint of twice eight pounds away,With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand,Fixt in the wall, affords his lamp a stand:Then baring both his arms, a sleeveless coatHe girds, the rough exuviae of a goat;And with a rubber, for that use designed Cleansing his mill within, begins to grind;Each hand has its employ; labouring amain,This turns the winch, while that supplies the grain.The stone revolving rapidly, now glows,And the bruised corn a mealy current flows;While he, to make his heavy labour light,Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right;And chants with rudest accent, to beguileHis ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while. And now, 'Dame Cybale, come forth!' he cries;But Cybale, still slumbering, nought replies.From Afric she, the swain's sole serving maid,Whose face and form alike her birth betrayed;With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin, Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin,Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet,Chapped into chinks, and parched with solar heat,Such, summoned oft, she came; at his commandFresh fuel heaped, the sleeping embers fanned,And made in haste her simmering skillet steam,Replenished newly from the neighbouring stream.The labours of the mill performed, a sieveThe mingled flour and bran must next receive,Which shaken oft, shoots Ceres through refined,And better dressed, her husks all left behind.This done, at once, his future plain repast,Unleavened, on a shaven board he cast,The tepid lymph, first largely soaked it all,Then gathered it with both hands to a ball,And spreading it again with both hands wide,With sprinkled salt the stiffened mass supplied;At length, the stubborn substance, duly wrought,Takes from his palms impressed the shape it ought,Becomes an orb, and quartered into shares,The faithful mark of just division bears.Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space,For Cybale before had swept the place,And there, with tiles and embers overspread,She leaves it -- reeking in its sultry bed.Nor Similus, while Vulcan thus, alone,His part performed, proves heedless of his own,But sedulous, not merely to subdueHis hunger, but to please his palate too,Prepares more savoury food. His chimney-sideCould boast no gammon, salted well, and dried,And hooked behind him; but sufficient storeOf bundled anise, and a cheese it bore;A broad round cheese, which, through its centre strungWith a tough broom-twig, in the corner hung;The prudent hero therefore with address,And quick despatch, now seeks another mess.Close to his cottage lay a garden-ground,With reeds and osiers sparely girt around;Small was the spot, but liberal to produce,Nor wanted aught that serves a peasant's use;And sometimes even the rich would borrow thence,Although its tillage was his sole expense.For oft, as from his toils abroad he ceased,Home-bound by weather or some stated feast,His debt of culture here he duly paid,And only left the plough to wield the spade.He knew to give each plant the soil it needs,To drill the ground, and cover close the seeds;And could with ease compel the wanton rillTo turn, and wind, obedient to his will.There flourished star-wort, and the branching beet,The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet, The skirret, and the leek's aspiring kind,The noxious poppy -- quencher of the mind!Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board,The lettuce, and the long huge-bellied gourd;But these (for none his appetite controlled With stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold;With broom-twigs neatly bound, each kind apart,He bore them ever to the public mart;Whence, laden still, but with a lighter load,Of each well earned, he took his homeward road,Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome,His gains, in flesh-meat for a feast at home.There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red,Or the curled endive's bitter leaf, he fed;On scallions sliced, or with a sensual gust On rockets -- foul provocatives of lust;Nor even shunned, with smarting gums, to pressNasturtium, pungent face-distorting mess!Some such regale now also in his thought,With hasty steps his garden-ground he sought;There delving with his hands, he first displacedFour plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast;The tender tops of parsley next he culls,Then the old rue-bush shudders as he pulls,And Coriander last to these succeeds,That hands on slightest threads her trembling seeds.Placed near his sprightly fire, he now demandsThe mortar at his sable servant's hands;When stripping all his garlick first, he toreThe exterior coats, and cast them on the floor,Then cast away with like contempt the skin,Flimsier concealment of the cloves within.These searched, and perfect found, he one by oneRinsed and disposed within the hollow stone;Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese,With his injected herbs he covered these,And tucking with his left his tunic tight,The garlick bruising first he soon expressed,And mixed the various juices of the rest.He grinds, and by degrees his herbs belowLost in each other their own powers forego,Nor wholly green appear, nor wholly white.His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent;He cursed full oft his dinner for its scent,Or with wry faces, wiping as he spokeThe trickling tears, cried -- 'Vengeance on the smoke!'The work proceeds: not roughly turns he nowThe pestle, but in circles smoothe and slow;With cautious hand that grudges what it spills,Some drops of olive-oil he next instils;Then vinegar with caution scarcely less;And gathering to a ball the medley mess,Last, with two fingers frugally applied,Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side:And thus complete in figure and in kind,Obtains at length the Salad he designed.And now black Cybale before him stands,The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands;He glad receives it, chasing far away All fears of famine for the passing day;His legs enclosed in buskins, and his headIn its tough casque of leather, forth he led,And yoked his steers, a dull obedient pair,Then drove afield, and plunged the pointed share.

Yardley Oak

Survivor sole, and hardly such, of allThat once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth,(Since which I number threescore winters past,)A shattered veteran, hollow-trunked perhaps,As now, and with excoriate forks deform,Relics of ages! Could a mind, imbuedWith truth from heaven, created thing adore,I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee.It seems idolatry, with some excuse,When our forefather Druids in their oaksImagined sanctity. The conscience, yetUnpurified by an authentic act Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine,Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloomOf thickest shades, like Adam after tasteOf fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled.Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball,Which babes might play with; and the thievish jaySeeking her food, with ease might have purloinedThe auburn nut that held thee, swallowing downThy yet close-folded latitude of boughsAnd all thine embryo vastness at a gulp.But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rainsBeneath thy parent tree mellowed the soil,Designed thy cradle; and a skipping dear,With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, preparedThe soft receptacle, in which, secure,Thy rudiments should sleep the winter throughSo Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can,Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy searchOf argument, employed too oft amiss,Sifts half the pleasures of short life away!Thou fell'st mature; and in the loamy clodSwelling with vegetative force instinct Did burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins,Now stars; two lobes, protruding, paired exact;A leaf succeeded, and another leaf,And, all the elements thy puny growthFostering propitious, thou becamest a twig.Who lived when thou wast such? Oh, couldst thou speakAs in Dodona once thy kindred treesOracular, I would not curious askThe future, best unknown, but at thy mouthInquisitive, the less ambiguous past.By thee I might correct, erroneous oft,The clock of history, facts and eventsTiming more punctual, unrecorded factsRecovering, and misstated setting right --Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again!Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods:And Time hath made thee what thou art -- a caveFor owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughsO'erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocks,That grazed it, stood beneath that ample copeUncrowded, yet safe-sheltered from the storm.No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlivedThy popularity, and art become (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thingForgotten, as the foliage of thy youth.While thus through all the stages thou hast pushed Of treeship -- first a seedling, hid in grass;Then twig; then sapling; and, as century rolled Slow after century, a giant-bulkOf girth enormous, with moss-cushioned root Upheaved above the soil, and sides embossedWith prominent wens globose, -- till at lastThe rottenness, which time is charged to inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee.What exhibitions various hath the worldWitnessed of mutability in all That we account most durable below!Change is the diet on which all subsist,Created changeable, and change at lastDestroys them. Skies uncertain now the heatTransmitting cloudless, and the solar beamNow quenching in a boundless sea of clouds,--Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought,Invigorate by turns the springs of lifeIn all that live, plant, animal, and man,And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads,Fine passing thought, e'en in her coarsest works,Delight in agitation, yet sustain,The force, that agitates, not unimpaired;But, worn by frequent impulse, to the causeOf their best tone their dissolution owe.Thought cannot spend itself, comparing stillThe great and little of thy lot, thy growthFrom almost nullity into a stateOf matchless grandeur, and declension thence,Slow, into such magnificent decay.Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the root -- and time has beenWhen tempests could not. At thy firmest ageThou hadst within thy bole solid contents,That might have ribbed the sides and planked the deckOf some flagged admiral; and tortuous arms, The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present To the four-quartered winds, robust and bold,Warped into tough knee-timber, many a load!But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier daysOaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply The bottomless demands of contest, waged For senatorial honours. Thus to TimeThe task was left to whittle thee awayWith his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge,Noiseless, an atom and an atom moreDisjoining from the rest, has, unobserved,Achieved a labour, which had far and wide,By man performed, made all the forest ring.Embowelled now, and of thy ancient self Possessing nought but the scooped rind, that seemAn huge throat, calling to the clouds for drink,Which it would give in rivulets to thy root,Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite.Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock,A quarry of stout spurs, and knotted fangs,Which, crooked into a thousand whimsies, claspThe stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect.So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid,Though all the superstructure, by the toothPulverised of venality, a shellStands now, and semblance only of itself!Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them offLong since, and rovers of the forest wildWith bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have left A splintered stump, bleached to a snowy white;And some, memorial none, where once they grew.Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forthProof not contemptible of what she can,Even where death predominates. The springFinds thee not less alive to her sweet force,Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring woodSo much thy juniors, who their birth received Half a millennium since the date of thine.But since, although well qualified by ageTo teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voiceMay be expected from thee, seated hereOn thy distorted root, with hearers none,Or prompter, save the scene, I will performMyself the oracle, and will discourseIn my own ear such matter as I may.One man alone, the father of us all,Drew not his life from woman; never gazed,With mute unconsciousness of what he saw,On all around him; learned not by degrees,Nor owed articulation to his ear;But, moulded by his Maker into manAt once, upstood intelligent, surveyedAll creatures, with precision understoodTheir purport, uses, properties, assigned To each his name significant, and filled With love and wisdom, rendered back to HeavenIn praise harmonious the first air he drew.He was excused the penalties of dullMinority. No tutor charged his handWith the thought-tracing quill, or tasked his mindWith problems. History, not wanted yet,Leaned on her elbow, watching Time, whose courseEventful, should supply her with a theme.* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In vain the talkative uniteIn hopes of permanent delight—The secret just committed,Forgetting its important weight,They drop through mere desire to prate,And by themselves outwitted.

How bright soe’er the prospect seems,All thoughts of friendship are but dreams,If envy chance to creep in;An envious man, if you succeed,May prove a dangerous foe indeed,But not a friend worth keeping.

As envy pines at good possess’d,So jealously looks forth distress’dOn good that seems approaching;And, if success his steps attend,Discerns a rival in a friend,And hates him for encroaching.

Hence authors of illustrious name,Unless belied by common fame,Are sadly prone to quarrel,To deem the wit a friend displaysA tax upon their own just praise,And pluck each other’s laurel.

A man renown’d for reparteeWill seldom scruple to make freeWith friendship’s finest feeling,Will thrust a dagger at your breast,And say he wounded you in jest,By way of balm for healing.

Whoever keeps an open earFor tattlers will be sure to hearThe trumpet of contention;Aspersion is the babbler’s trade,To listen is to lend him aid,And rush into dissension.

Some fickle creatures boast a soulTrue as a needle to the pole,Their humour yet so various—They manifest their whole life throughThe needle’s deviations too,Their love is so precarious.

The great and small but rarely meetOn terms of amity complete;Plebeians must surrender,And yield so much to noble folk,It is combining fire with smoke,Obscurity with splendour.

Some are so placid and serene(As Irish bogs are always green),They sleep secure from waking;And are indeed a bog, that bearsYour unparticipated caresUnmoved and without quaking.

Courtier and patriot cannot mixTheir heterogeneous politicsWithout an effervescence,Like that of salts with lemon juice,Which does not yet like that produceA friendly coalescence.

Religion should extinguish strife,And make a calm of human life;But friends that chance to differOn points which God has left at large,How freely will they meet and charge!No combatants are stiffer.

To prove at last my main intentNeeds no expense of argument,No cutting and contriving—Seeking a real friend, we seemTo adopt the chemist’s golden dream,With still less hope of thriving.

Sometimes the fault is all our own,Some blemish in due time made knownBy trespass or omission;Sometimes occasion brings to lightOur friend’s defect, long hid from sight,And even from suspicion.

Then judge yourself, and prove your manAs circumspectly as you can,And, having made election,Beware no negligence of yours,Such as a friend but ill endures,Enfeeble his affection.

That secrets are a sacred trust,That friends should be sincere and just,That constancy befits them,Are observations on the case,That savour much of commonplace,And all the world admits them.

But ‘tis not timber, lead, and stone,An architect requires aloneTo finish a fine building—The palace were but half complete,If he could possibly forgetThe carving and the gilding.

The man that hails you Tom or Jack,And proves by thumps upon your backHow he esteems your merit,Is such a friend, that one had needBe very much his friend indeedTo pardon or to bear it.

As similarity of mind,Or something not to be defined,First fixes our attention;So manners decent and polite,The same we practised at first sight,Must save it from declension.

Some act upon this prudent plan,“Say little, and hear all you can.”Safe policy, but hateful—So barren sands imbibe the shower,But render neither fruit nor flower,Unpleasant and ungrateful.

The man I trust, if shy to me,Shall find me as reserved as he,No subterfuge or pleadingShall win my confidence again;I will by no means entertainA spy on my proceeding.

These samples—for, alas! at lastThese are but samples, and a tasteOf evils yet unmention’d—May prove the task a task indeed,In which ‘tis much if we succeed,However well intention’d.

Pursue the search, and you will findGood sense and knowledge of mankindTo be at least expedient,And, after summing all the rest,Religion ruling in the breastA principal ingredient.

The noblest Friendship ever shownThe Saviour’s history makes known,Though some have turn’d and turn’d it;And, whether being crazed or blind,Or seeking with a biass’d mind,Have not, it seems, discern’d it.

The 5th Satire Of Book I. Of Horace : A Humorous Description Of The Author's Journey From Rome To Brundusium

'Twas a long journey lay before us,When I and honest Heliodorus,Who far in point of rhetoricSurpasses every living Greek,Each leaving our respective homeTogether sallied forth from Rome.First at Aricia we alight,And there refresh and pass the night,Our entertainment rather coarseThan sumptuous, but I've met with worse.Thence o'er the causeway soft and fairTo Apii Forum we repair.But as this road is well supplied (Temptation strong!) on either sideWith inns commodious, snug, and warm,We split the journey, and performIn two days' time what's often doneBy brisker travellers in one.Here rather choosing not to supThan with bad water mix my cup, After a warm debate in spiteOf a provoking appetite,I sturdily resolved at lastTo balk it, and pronounce a fast,And in a moody humour wait,While my less dainty comrades bait.Now o'er the spangled hemisphereDiffused the starry train appear,When there arose a desperate brawl;The slaves and bargemen, one and all,Rending their throats (have mercy on us!)As if they were resolved to stun us.'Steer the barge this way to the shore!I tell you we'll admit no more!Plague! will you never be content?'Thus a whole hour at least is spent,While they receive the several fares,And kick the mule into his gears.Happy, these difficulties past,Could we have fallen asleep at last!But, what with humming, croaking, biting,Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting,These tuneful natives of the lakeConspired to keep us broad awake.Besides, to make the concert full,Two maudlin wights, exceeding dull,The bargeman and a passenger,Each in his turn, essayed an air In honour of his absent fair.At length the passenger, opprestWith wine, left off, and snored the rest.The weary bargeman too gave o'er,And hearing his companion snore,Seized the occasion, fixed the barge,Turned out his mule to graze at large,And slept forgetful of his charge.And now the sun o'er eastern hill,Discovered that our barge stood still;When one, whose anger vexed him sore,With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore,Plucks up a stake, with many a thwackAssails the mule and driver's back.Then slowly moving on with pain,At ten Feronia's stream we gain,And in her pure and glassy waveOur hands and faces gladly lave.Climbing three miles, fair Anxur's heightWe reach, with stony quarries white.While here, as was agreed, we wait,Till, charged with business of the state,Maecenas and Cocceius come,The messengers of peace from Rome.My eyes, by watery humours blearAnd sore, I with black balsam smear.At length they join us, and with themOur worthy friend Fonteius came;A man of such complete desert,Antony loved him at his heart.At Fundi we refused to bait,And laughed at vain Aufidius' state,A praetor now, a scribe before,The purple-bordered robe he wore,His slave the smoking censer bore.Tired at Muraena's we repose,At Formia sup at Capito's.With smiles the rising morn we greet,At Sinuessa pleased to meet With Plotius, Varius, and the bardWhom Mantua first with wonder heard.The world no purer spirits knows;For none my heart more warmly glows.Oh! what embraces we bestowed,And with what joy our breasts o'erflowed!Sure while my sense is sound and clear,Long as I live, I shall preferA gay, good-natured, easy friend,To every blessing heaven can send.At a small village, the next night,Near the Vulturnus we alight;Where, as employed on state affairs,We were supplied by the purveyorsFrankly at once, and without hire,With food for man and horse, and fire;Capua next day betimes we reach,Where Virgil and myself, who eachLaboured with different maladies,His such a stomach,-- mine such eyes,--As would not bear strong exercise,In drowsy mood to sleep resort;Maecenas to the tennis-court.Next at Cocceius' farm we're treated,Above the Caudian tavern seated;His kind and hospitable boardWith choice of wholesome food was stored.Now, O ye Nine, inspire my lays!To nobler themes my fancy raise!Two combatants, who scorn to yieldThe noisy, tongue-disputed field,Sarmentus and Cicirrus, claimA poet's tribute to their fame;Cicirrus of true Oscian breed,Sarmentus, who was never freed,But ran away. We don't defame him,His lady lives, and still may claim him.Thus dignified, in harder frayThese champions their keen wit display,And first Sarmentus led the way.'Thy locks, (quoth he), so rough and coarse,Look like the mane of some wild horse.'We laugh : Cicirrus undismayed--'Have at you!' -- cries, and shakes his head.''Tis well (Sarmentus says) you've lostThat horn your forehead once could boast;Since maimed and mangled as you are,You seem to butt.' A hideous scarImproved ('tis true) with double graceThe native horrors of his face.Well. After much jocosely saidOf his grim front, so fiery red,(For carbuncles had blotched it o'er,As usual on Campania's shore)'Give us, (he cried), since you're so big,A sample of the Cyclops' jig!Your shanks methinks no buskins ask,Nor does your phiz require a mask.'To this Cicirrus. 'In returnOf you, sir, now I fain would learn,When 'twas, no longer deemed a slave,Your chains you to the Lares gave.For though a scrivener's right you claim,Your lady's title is the same.But what could make you run away,Since, pigmy as you are, each dayA single pound of bread would quiteO'erpower your puny appetite?'Thus joked the champions, while we laughed,And many a cheerful bumper quaffed.To Beneventum next we steer;Where our good host by over careIn roasting thrushes lean as miceHad almost fallen a sacrifice.The kitchen soon was all on fire,And to the roof the flames aspire.There might you see each man and masterStriving, amidst this sad disaster,To save the supper. Then they cameWith speed enough to quench the flame.From hence we first at distant see The Apulian hills, well known to me,Parched by the sultry western blast;And which we never should have past,Had not Trivicus by the wayReceived us at the close of day.But each was forced at entering hereTo pay the tribute of a tear,For more of smoke than fire was seen:The hearth was piled with logs so green.From hence in chaises we were carriedMiles twenty-four and gladly tarried At a small town, whose name my verse(So barbarous is it) can't rehearse.Know it you may by many a sign,Water is dearer far than wine.There bread is deemed such dainty fair,That every prudent travellerHis wallet loads with many a crust;For at Canusium, you might justAs well attempt to gnaw a stoneAs think to get a morsel down.That too with scanty streams is fed;Its founder was brave Diomed.Good Varius (ah, that friends must part!)Here left us all with aching heart.At Rubi we arrived that day,Well jaded by the length of way,And sure poor mortals ne'er were wetter.Next day no weather could be better;No roads so bad; we scarce could crawlAlong to fishy Barium's wall.The Ingatians next, who by the rulesOf common sense are knaves or fools,Made all our sides with laughter heave,Since we with them must needs believe,That incense in their temples burns,And without fire to ashes turns.To circumcision's bigots tellSuch tales! for me, I know full well,That in high heaven, unmoved by care,The gods eternal quiet share:Nor can I deem their spleen the causeWhy fickle nature breaks her laws.Brundusium last we reach: and thereStop short the Muse and Traveller.

On The Death Of Damon. (Translated From Milton)

Ye Nymphs of Himera (for ye have shedErewhile for Daphnis and for Hylas dead,And over Bion's long-lamented bier,The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear)Now, through the villas laved by Thames rehearseThe woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse,What sighs he heav'd, and how with groans profoundHe made the woods and hollow rocks resoundYoung Damon dead; nor even ceased to pourHis lonely sorrows at the midnight hour. The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear,And golden harvest twice enrich'd the year,Since Damon's lips had gasp'd for vital airThe last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there;For he, enamour'd of the Muse, remain'dIn Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'd,But, stored at length with all he wish'd to learn,For his flock's sake now hasted to return,And when the shepherd had resumed his seatAt the elm's root within his old retreat,Then 'twas his lot, then, all his loss to know,And, from his burthen'd heart, he vented thus his woe.Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Alas! what Deities shall I supposeIn heav'n or earth concern'd for human woes,Since, Oh my Damon! their severe decreeSo soon condemns me to regret of Thee!Depart'st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaidWith fame and honour, like a vulgar shade? Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controls,And sep'rates sordid from illustrious souls,Drive far the rabble, and to Thee assignA happier lot with spirits worthy thine!Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chanceThe wolf first give me a forbidding glance,Thou shalt not moulder undeplor'd, but longThy praise shall dwell on ev'ry shepherd's tongue;To Daphnis first they shall delight to pay,And, after Him, to thee the votive lay,While Pales shall the flocks and pastures love,Or Faunus to frequent the field or grove,At least if antient piety and truthWith all the learned labours of thy youthMay serve thee aught, or to have left behindA sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind.Go, seek your home, my lambs, my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you. Yes, Damon! such thy sure reward shall be,But ah, what doom awaits unhappy me?Who, now, my pains and perils shall divide,As thou wast wont, for ever at my side,Both when the rugged frost annoy'd our feet,And when the herbage all was parch'd with heat,Whether the grim wolf's ravage to preventOr the huge lion's, arm'd with darts we went?Whose converse, now, shall calm my stormy day,With charming song who, now, beguile my way? Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.In whom shall I confide? Whose counsel findA balmy med'cine for my troubled mind?Or whose discourse with innocent delightShall fill me now, and cheat the wint'ry night,While hisses on my hearth the pulpy pear,And black'ning chesnuts start and crackle there,While storms abroad the dreary meadows whelm,And the wind thunders thro' the neighb'ring elm?Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Or who, when summer suns their summit reach,And Pan sleeps hidden by the shelt'ring beech,When shepherds disappear, Nymphs seek the sedge,And the stretch'd rustic snores beneath the hedge,Who then shall render me thy pleasant veinOf Attic wit, thy jests, thy smiles again?Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Where glens and vales are thickest overgrownWith tangled boughs, I wander now aloneTill night descend, while blust'ring wind and show'rBeat on my temples through the shatter'd bow'r.Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Alas, what rampant weeds now shame my fields,And what a mildew'd crop the furrow yields!My rambling vines unwedded to the treesBear shrivel'd grapes, my myrtles fail to please,Nor please me more my flocks; they, slighted, turnTheir unavailing looks on me, and mourn.Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Aegon invites me to the hazel grove,Amyntas, on the river's bank to rove,And young Alphesiboeus to a seatWhere branching elms exclude the midday heat--'Here fountains spring-here mossy hillocks rise--''Here Zephyr whispers and the stream replies--' Thus each persuades, but deaf to ev'ry callI gain the thickets, and escape them all.Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are dueTo other cares than those of feeding you.Then Mopsus said (the same who reads so wellThe voice of birds, and what the stars foretell,For He by chance had noticed my return)What means thy sullen mood, this deep concern?Ah Thyrsis! thou art either crazed with love,Or some sinister influence from above, Dull Saturn's influence oft the shepherd rue,His leaden shaft oblique has pierced thee through.Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'd as ye are,My thoughts are all now due to other care.The Nymphs amazed my melancholy see,And, Thyrsis! cry--what will become of thee?What would'st thou, Thyrsis? such should not appearThe brow of youth, stern, gloomy, and severe,Brisk youth should laugh and love--ah shun the fateOf those twice wretched mopes who love too late! Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'd as ye are,My thoughts are all now due to other care.Aegle with Hyas came, to sooth my pain,And Baucis' daughter, Dryope the vain,Fair Dryope, for voice and finger neatKnown far and near, and for her self-conceit,Came Chloris too, whose cottage on the landsThat skirt the Idumanian current stands;But all in vain they came, and but to seeKind words and comfortable lost on me.Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'd as ye are,My thoughts are all now due to other care.Ah blest indiff'rence of the playful herd,None by his fellow chosen or preferr'd!No bonds of amity the flocks enthrall,But each associates and is pleased with all;So graze the dappled deer in num'rous droves,And all his kind alike the zebra loves'The same law governs where the billows roarAnd Proteus' shoals o'erspread the desert shore;The sparrow, meanest of the feather'd race,His fit companion finds in ev'ry place,With whom he picks the grain that suits him best,Flits here and there, and late returns to rest,And whom if chance the falcon make his prey,Or Hedger with his well-aim'd arrow slay,For no such loss the gay survivor grieves'New love he seeks, and new delight receives.We only, an obdurate kind, rejoice,Scorning all others, in a single choice, We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind,And if the long-sought good at last we find,When least we fear it, Death our treasure steals,And gives our heart a wound that nothing heals.Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'd as ye are,My thoughts are all now due to other care.Ah, what delusion lured me from my flocks,To traverse Alpine snows, and rugged rocks!What need so great had I to visit RomeNow sunk in ruins, and herself a tomb?Or, had she flourish'd still as when, of oldFor her sake Tityrus forsook his fold,What need so great had I t'incur a pauseOf thy sweet intercourse for such a cause,For such a cause to place the roaring sea,Rocks, mountains, woods, between my friend and me?Else, I had grasp'd thy feeble hand, composedThy decent limbs, thy drooping eye-lids closed,And, at the last, had said--Farewell--Ascend--Nor even in the skies forget thy friend.Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare,My thoughts are all now due to other care.Although well-pleas'd, ye tuneful Tuscan swains!My mind the mem'ry of your worth retains,Yet not your worth can teach me less to mournMy Damon lost--He too was Tuscan born,Born in your Lucca, city of renown,And Wit possess'd and Genius like your own.Oh how elate was I, when, stretch'd besideThe murm'ring course of Arno's breezy tide,Beneath the poplar-grove I pass'd my hours,Now cropping myrtles, and now vernal flow'rs,And hearing, as I lay at ease along,Your swains contending for the prize of song!I also dared attempt (and, as it seemsNot much displeas'd attempting) various themes,For even I can presents boast from you,The shepherd's pipe and osier basket too,And Dati and Francini both have madeMy name familiar to the beechen shade, And they are learn'd, and each in ev'ry placeRenown'd for song, and both of Lydian Race.Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare,My thoughts are all now due to other care.While bright the dewy grass with moon-beams shone,And I stood hurdling in my kids alone,How often have I said (but thou had'st foundEre then thy dark cold lodgment under-ground)Now Damon sings, or springes sets for hares,Or wicker-work for various use prepares! How oft, indulging Fancy, have I plann'dNew scenes of pleasure, that I hop'd at hand,Call'd thee abroad as I was wont, and cried--What hoa, my friend--come, lay thy task aside--Haste, let us forth together, and beguileThe heat beneath yon whisp'ring shades awhile,Or on the margin stray of Colne's clear flood,Or where Cassivelan's grey turrets stood!There thou shalt cull me simples, and shalt teachThy friend the name and healing pow'rs of each,From the tall blue-bell to the dwarfish weed,What the dry land and what the marshes breed,For all their kinds alike to thee are known,And the whole art of Galen is thy own.Ah, perish Galen's art, and wither'd beThe useless herbs that gave not health to thee!Twelve evenings since, as in poetic dreamI meditating sat some statelier theme,The reeds no sooner touch'd my lip, though newAnd unassay'd before, than wide they flew, Bursting their waxen bands, nor could sustainThe deep-ton'd music of the solemn strain;And I am vain perhaps, but will tellHow proud a theme I choose--ye groves farewell!Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare,My thoughts are all now due to other care.Of Brutus, Dardan Chief, my song shall be,How with his barks he plough'd the British sea,First from Rutupia's tow'ring headland seen,And of his consort's reign, fair Imogen; Of Brennus and Belinus, brothers bold,And of Arviragus, and how of oldOur hardy sires th'Armorican controll'd,And the wife of Gorlois, who, surprisedBy Uther in her husband's form disguised,(Such was the force of Merlin's art) becamePregnant with Arthur of heroic fame.These themes I now revolve--and Oh--if FateProportion to these themes my lengthen'd date,Adieu my shepherd's-reed--yon pine-tree boughShall be thy future home, there dangle ThouForgotten and disus'd, unless ere longThou change thy Latin for a British song.A British?--even so--the pow'rs of ManAre bounded; little is the most he can,And it shall well suffice me, and shall beFame and proud recompense enough for me,If Usa golden-hair'd my verse may learn,If Alain, bending o'er his chrystal urn,Swift-whirling Abra, Trent's o'ershadow'd stream,Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteemTamar's ore-tinctur'd flood, and, after these,The wave-worn shores of utmost OrcadesGo, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare,My thoughts are all now due to other care.All this I kept in leaves of laurel-rindEnfolded safe, and for thy view design'd,This--and a gift from Manso's hand beside,(Manso, not least his native city's pride)Two cups, that radiant as their giver shone,Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone.The spring was graven there; here, slowly windThe Red-Sea shores with groves of spices lined;Her plumes of various hues amid the boughsThe sacred, solitary Phoenix shows,And, watchful of the dawn, reverts her headTo see Aurora leave her wat'ry bed.In other part, th'expansive vault above,And there too, even there, the God of love;With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displays A vivid light, his gem-tip'd arrows blaze,Around, his bright and fiery eyes he rolls,Nor aims at vulgar minds or little soulsNor deigns one look below, but aiming highSends every arrow to the lofty sky,Hence, forms divine, and minds immortal learnThe pow'r of Cupid, and enamour'd burn.Thou also Damon (neither need I fearThat hope delusive) thou art also there;For whither should simplicity like thine Retire, where else such spotless virtue shine?Thou dwell'st not (thought profane) in shades below,Nor tears suit thee--cease then my tears to flow,Away with grief on Damon ill-bestow'd,Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode,Has pass'd the show'ry arch, henceforth residesWith saints and heroes, and from flowing tidesQuaffs copious immortality and joyWith hallow'd lips. Oh! blest without alloy,And now enrich'd with all that faith can claim,Look down entreated by whatever name,If Damon please thee most (that rural sound)Shall oft with ecchoes fill the groves around)Or if Diodatus, by which aloneIn those ethereal mansions thou art known.Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the tasteOf wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste,The honours, therefore, by divine decreeThe lot of virgin worth are giv'n to thee;Thy brows encircled with a radiant band,And the green palm-branch waving in thy handThou immortal Nuptials shalt rejoiceAnd join with seraphs thy according voice,Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyreGuides the blest orgies of the blazing quire.

Translation From Virgil. Æneid, Book Viii. Line 18.

Thus Italy was moved -- nor did the chiefÆneas in his mind less tumult feel. On every side his anxious thought he turns, Restless, unfix'd, not knowing which to choose.And as a cistern that in brim of brassConfines the crystal flood, if chance the sunSmite on it, or the moon's resplendent orb.The quivering light now flashes on the walls,Now leaps uncertain to the vaulted roof:Such were the wavering motions of his mind.'Twas night -- and weary nature sunk to rest.The birds, the bleating flocks, were heard no more.At length, on the cold ground, beneath the dampAnd dewy vault fast by the river's brink, The father of his country sought repose,When lo! among the spreading poplar boughs,Forth from his pleasant stream, propitious roseThe god of Tiber: clear transparent gauzeInfolds his loins, his brows with reeds are crown'd:And these his gracious words to soothe his care:'Heaven-born, who bring'st our kindred home again,Rescued, and givest eternity to Troy,Long have Laurentum and the Latian plains Expected thee; behold thy fix'd abode.Fear not the threats of war, the storm is past,The gods appeased. For proof that what thou hear'stIs no vain forgery or delusive dream,Beneath the grove that borders my green bank,A milk-white swine, with thirty milk-white youngShall greet thy wondering eyes. Mark well the place;For 'tis thy place of rest, there and thy toils:There, twice ten years elapsed, fair Alba's wallsShall rise, fair Alba, by Ascanius' hand.Thus shall it be -- now listen, while I teachThe means to accomplish these events at handThe Arcadians here, a race from Pallas sprung,Following Evander's standard and his fate,High on these mountains, a well chosen spot,Have built a city, for their grandsire's sakeNamed Pallenteum. These perpetual warWage with the Latians: join'd in faithful league And arms confederate, and them to your camp. Myself between my winding banks will speed Your well oar'd barks to stem the opposing tide.Rise, goddess born, arise; and with the firstDeclining stars seek Juno in thy prayer,And vanquish all her wrath with suppliant vows When conquest crowns thee, then remember meI am the Tiber, whose cærulean streamHeaven favors; I with copious flood divideThese grassy banks, and cleave the fruitful meadsMy mansion, this -- and lofty cities crownMy fountain head.' -- He spoke and sought the deep,And plunged his form beneath the closing flood.Æneas at the morning dawn awoke,And, rising, with uplifted eye beheld The orient sun, then dipped his palms, and scoop'd The brimming stream, and thus address'd teh skies:'Ye nymphs, Laurentian nymphs, who feed the sourceOf many a stream, and thou, with thy blest flood,O Tiber, hear, accept me, and afford,At length afford, a shelter from my woes.Where'er in secret cavern under groundThy waters sleep, where'er they spring to light,Since thou hast pity for a wretch like me,My offerings and my vows shall wait thee still:Great horned Father of Hesperian floods,Be gracious now, and ratify thy word.'He said, and chose two galleys from his fleet,Fits them with oars, and clothes the crew in armsWhen lo! astonishing and pleasing sight,The milk-white dam, with her unspotted brood,Lay stretch'd upon the bank, beneath the grove.To thee, the pious Prince, Juno, to thee Devotes them all, all on thine altar bleed.That live-long night old Tiber smooth'd his flood,And so restrain'd it that it seem'd to standMotionless as a pool, or silent lake, That not a billow might resist their oars.With cheerful sound of exhortation soonTheir voyage they begin; the pitchy keelSlides through the gentle deep, the quiet streamAdmires the unwonted burden that it bears,Well polish'd arms, and vessels painted gay.Beneath the shade of various trees, betweenThe umbrageous branches of the spreading groves,They cut their liquid way, nor day nor nightThey slack their course, unwinding as they goThe long meanders of the peaceful tide.The glowing sun was in meridian height,When from afar they saw the humble walls,And the few scatter'd cottages, which nowThe Roman power has equall'd with the clouds;But such was then Evander's scant domain.They steer to shore, and hasten to the town.It chanced the Arcadian monarch on that day,Before the walls, beneath a shady grove,Was celebrating high, in solemn feast,Alcides and his tutelary gods.Pallas, his son, was there, and there the chiefOf all his youth; with these, a worthy tribe,His poor but venerable senate, burntSweet incense, and their altars smoked with blood.Soon as they saw the towering masts approach,Sliding between the trees, while the crew restUpon their silent oars, amazed they rose,Not without fear, and all forsook the feast.But Pallas undismay'd, his javelin seized,Rush'd to the bank, and from a rising groundForbade them to disturb the sacred rites.'Ye stranger youth! What prompts you to exploreThis untried way? and whither do ye steer?Whence, and who are you? Bring ye peace or war?'Æneas from his lofty deck holds forth The peaceful olive branch, and thus replies:'Trojans and enemies to the Latian state,Whom they with unprovoked hostilitiesHave driven away, thou seest. We seek EvanderSay this -- and say beside, the Trojan chiefs Are come, and seek his friendship and his aid.'Pallas with wonder heard that awful name,And 'Whosoe'er thou art,' he cried, 'come forth:Bear thine own tidings to my father's ear,And be a welcome guest beneath our roof.'He said, and, press'd the stranger to his breast:Then led him from the river to the grove,Where, courteous, thus Æneas greets the king:'Best of the Grecian race, to whom I bow(So wills my fortune) suppliant, and stretch forthIn sign of amity this peaceful branch,I fear'd thee not, although I knew thee wellA Grecian leader, born in Arcady,And kinsman of the Atridæ. Me my virtue,That means no wrong to thee -- the Oracles,Our kindred families allied of old,And I thy renown diffused through every land,Have all conspired to bind in friendship to thee,And send me not unwilling to thy shores.Dardanas, author of the Trojan state, (So say the Greeks,) was fair Electra's son;Electra boasted Atlas for her sire,Whose shoulders high sustain the ethereal orbs.Your sire is Mercury, whom Maia bore,Sweet Maia, on Cylene's hoary top.Her, if we credit aught tradition old,Atlas of yore, the self-same Atlas, claim'dHis daughter. Thus united close in blood,Thy race and ours one common sire confess.With these credentials fraught, I would not sendAmbassadors with artful phrase to soundAnd win thee by degrees -- but came myself --Me, therefore, me thou seest; my life the stake:'Tis I, Æneas, who implore thine aid.Should Daunia, that now aims the blow at theePrevail to conquer us, nought then, they think, Will hinder, but Hesperia must be theirs,All theirs, from upper to the nether sea.Take then our friendship, and return us thine.We too have courage, we have noble minds,And youth well tried, and exercised arms.'Thus spoke Æneas. --He with fix'd regardSurvey'd him speaking, features, form, and mienThen briefly thus -- 'Thou noblest of thy name,How gladly do I take thee to my heart,How gladly thus confess thee for a friend!In thee I trace Anchises; his thy speech,Thy voice, thy countenance. For I well rememberMany a day since, when Priam journey'd forthTo Salamis, to see the land where dwelt Hesione, his sister, he push'd onE'en to Arcadia's frozen bounds. 'Twas thenThe bloom of youth was glowing on my cheek;Much I admired the Trojan chiefs, and muchTheir king, the son of great Laomedon,But most Anchises, towering o'er them all. A youthful longing seized me to accostThe hero, and embrace him; I drew near,And gladly led him to the walls of Pheneus.Departing, he distinguish'd me with gifts,A costly quiver stored with Lycian darts, A robe inwove with hold, with gold imboss'dTwo bridles, those which Pallas uses now. The friendly league thou hast solicited I give thee, therefore, and to-morrow allMy chosen youth shall wait on your return.Meanwhile, since thus in friendship ye are come,Rejoice with us, and join to celebrateThese annual rites, which may not be delay'd,And be at once familiar at our board.'He said, and bade replace the feast removed;Himself upon a grassy bank disposed The crew; but for Æneas order'd forthA couch spread with a lion's tawny shag,And bade him share the honors of his throne.The appointed youth with glad alacrity Assist the laboring priest to load the boardWith roasted entrails of the slaughter'd beevesWell kneaded bread and mantling bowls. We pleased,Æneas and the Trojan youth regale On the huge length of a well pastured chine.Hunger appeased, and tables all despatch'd Thus spake Evander: 'Superstition here,In this old solemn feasting, has no part.No, Trojan friend, from utmost danger saved,In gratitude this worship we renew.Behold that rock which nods above the vale,Thos bulks of broken stone dispersed around,How desolate the shatter'd cave appears,And what a ruin spreads the incumber'd plainWithin this pile, but far within, was once The den of Cacus; dire his hateful formThat shunn'd the day, half monster and half man.Blood newly shed stream'd ever on the groundSmoking, and many a visage pale and wanNail'd at his gate, hung hideous to the sight.Vulcan begot the brute: vast was his size,And from his throat he belch'd his father's fires.But the day came that brought us what we wish'd,The assistance and the presence of a God. Flush'd with his victory, and the spoils he wonFrom triple-form'd Geryon lately slain,The great avenger, Hercules, appear'd.Hither he drove his stately bulls, and pour'd His herds along the vale. But the sly thiefCacus, that nothing might escape his handOf villainy or fraud, drove from the stallsFour of the lordliest of his bulls, and four The fairest of his heifers: by the tailHe dragg'd them to his den, that, there conceal'd,No footsteps might betray the dark abode.And now, his herd with provender sufficed,Alcides would be gone: they as they went Still bellowing loud, made the deep echoing woodsAnd distant hills resound: when, hark! one ox, Imprison'd close within the vast recess,Lows in return, and frustrates all his hope.Then fury seized Alcides, and his breastWith indignation heaved; grasping his club Of knotted oak, swift to the mountain topHe ran, he flew. Then first was Cacus seenTo tremble, and his eyes bespoke his fears.Swift as an eastern blast, he sought his den, And dread, increasing, wing'd him as he went.Drawn up in iron slings above the gate,A rock was hung enormous. Such his haste,He burst the chains, and dropp'd it at the door,Then grapplied it with iron work withinOf bolts and bars by Vulcan's art contrived.Scarce was he fast, when, panting for revenge,Came Hercules; he gnash'd his teeth with rage,And quick as lightning glanced his eyes around In quest of entrance. Fiery rod and stung With indignation, thrice he wheel'd his courseAbout the mountain; thrice, but thrice in vain,He strove to force the quarry at the gate,And thrice sat down, o'erwearied in the vale.There stood a pointed rock abrupt and rude,That high o'erlook'd the rest, close at the backOf the fell monster's den, when birds obsceneOf ominous note resorted, choughs and daws.This, as it lean'd obliquely to the left, Threatening with stream below, he from the rightPush'd with his utmost strength, and to and froHe shook the mass, loosening its lowest base;Then shoved it from its seat; down fell the pile;Sky thunder'd at the fall; the banks give way, The affrighted stream flows upward to his source.Behold the kennel of the brute exposed,The gloomy vault laid open. So, if chanceEarth yawning to the centre should disclose The mansions, the pale mansions of the dead,Loathed by the gods, such would the gulf appear,And the ghosts tremble at the sight of day.The monster braying with unusual dinWithin his hollow lair, and sore amazed To see such sudden inroads of the light,Alcides press'd him close with what at handLay readiest, stumps of trees, and fragments hugeOf millstone size. He, (for escape was none), Wondrous to tell! forth from his gorge discharged A smoky cloud that darken'd all the den;Wreath after wreath he vomited again,The smothering vapor mix'd with fiery sparksNo sight could penetrate the veil obscure.The hero, more provoked, endured not this, But with a headlong leap he rush'd to whereThe thickest cloud enveloped his abode.There grasp'd he Cacus, spite of all his fires,Till, crush'd within his arms, the monster showHis bloodless throat, now dry with panting hard,And his press'd eyeballs start. Soon he tears downThe barricade of rock, the dark abyssLies open; and the imprison'd bulls, the theft He had with oaths dednied, are brought to light;By the heels the miscreant carcass is dragg'd forth.His face, his eyes, all terrible, his breastBeset with bristles, and his sooty jaws Are view'd with wonder never to be cloy'd.Hence the celebrity thou seest, and henceThis festal day Potitius first enjoin'd Posterity: these solemn rites he first,With those who bear the great Pinarian name,To Hercules devoted; in the grove This altar built, deem'd sacred in the highest By us, and sacred ever to be deem'd.Come, then, my friends, and bind your youthful browsIn praise of such deliverance, and hold forthThe brimming cup; your deities and oursAre now the same, then drink, and freely too.'So saying, he twisted round his reverend locks A variegated poplar wreath, and fill'dHis right hand with a consecrated bowl. At once all pour libations on the board,All offer prayer. And now, the radiant sphereOf day descending, eventide drew near.When first Potitius with the priests advanced,Begirt with skins, and torches in their hands.High piled with meats of savory taste, they rangedThe chargers, and renew'd the grateful feast.Then came the Salii, crown'd with poplar too,Circling the blazing altars; here the youthAdvanced, a choir harmonious, there were heardThe reverend seers responsive; praise they sung,Much praise in honor of Alcides' deeds;How first with infant grip two serpents hugeHe strangled, sent from Juno; next they sungHow Troja and Œchalia he destroy'd,Fair cities both, and many a toilsome taskBeneath Eurystheus (so his stepdame will'd) Achieved victorious. Thou, the cloud-born pair,Hylæus fierce and Pholus, monstrous twins,Thou slew'st the minotaur, the plague of Crete,And the vast lion of the Nemean rock,Thee hell, and Cerberus, hell's porter, fear'd,Stretch'd in his den upon his half-gnaw'd bones.Thee no abhorred form, not e'en the vastTyphœus could appal, though clad in arms.Hail, true-born son of Jove, among the godsAt length enroll'd, nor least illustrious thou,Haste thee propitious, and approve our songsThus hymn'd the chorus; above all they singThe cave of Cacus, and the flames he breathed The whole grove echoes, and the hills rebound.The rites perform'd, all hasten to the town.The king, bending with age, held as he wentÆneas and his Pallas by the hand,With much variety of pleasing talkShortening the way. Æneas, with a smile,Looks round him, charm'd with the delightful scene,And many a question asks, and much he learnsOf heroes far renown'd in ancient times.Then spake Evander. These extensive groves,Were once inhabited by fauns and nymphs,Produced beneath their shades, and a rude raceOf men, the progeny uncouth of elmsAnd knotted oaks. They no refinement knewOf laws or manners civilized, to yokeThe steer, with forecast provident to storeThe hoarded grain, or manage what they had,But browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs,Or fed voracious on their hunted prey.An exile from Olympus, and expell'dHis native realm by thunder-bearing Jove,First Saturn came. He from the mountains drewThis herd of men untractable and fierce,And gave them laws: and call'd his hiding-place,This growth of forests, Latium. Such the peaceHis land possess'd, the golden age was then, So famed in story; till by slow degreesFar other times, and of far different hue,Succeeded, thirst of gold and thirst of blood.Then came Ausonian bands, and armed hostsFrom Sicily, and Latium often changed Her master and her name. At length aroseKings, of whom Tybris of gigantic formWas chief: and we Italians since have call'dThe river by his name: thus Albula(So was the country call'd in ancient days)Was quite forgot. Me from my native landAn exile, through the dangerous ocean driven,Resistless fortune and relentless fatePlaced where thou seest me. Phoebus, andThe nymph Carmentis, with maternal careAttendant on my wanderings, fix'd me here.

[Ten lines omitted.]

He said, and show'd him the Tarpeian rock,And the rude spot where now the Capitol Stands all magnificent and bright with gold,Then overgrown with thorns. And yet e'en thenThe swains beheld that sacred scene with awe;The grove, the rock, inspired religious fear.This grove, he said, that crowns the lofty topOf this fair hill, some deity, we know,Inhabits, but what deity we doubt.The Arcadians speak of Jupiter himselfThat they have often seen him, shaking hereHis gloomy Ægis, while the thunder stormsCame rolling all around him. Turn thine eyes,Behold that ruin: those dismantled walls,Where once two towns, Janiculum----, By Janus this, and that by Saturn built,Saturnia. Such discourse brought them beneathThe roof of poor Evander; thence they saw,Where now the proud and stately forum stands,The grazing herds wide scatter'd o'er the field.Soon as he enter'd -- Hercules, he said,Victorious Hercules, on this threshold trod,These walls contain'd him, humble as they are.Dare to despise magnificence, my friend,Prove thy divine descent by worth divine,Nor view with haughty scorn this mean abode.So saying, he led Æneas by the hand,And placed him on a cushion stuff'd with leaves,Spread with the skin of a Lybistian bear.

[The episode of Venus and Vulcan omitted.]

While thus in Lemnos Vulcan was employ'd,Awaken'd by the gentle dawn of day,And the shrill song of birds benearth the eavesOf his low mansion, old Evander rose.His tunic, and the sandals on his feet,And his good sword well girded to his side,A panther's skin dependent from his left,And over his right shoulder thrown aslant,Thus was he clad. Two mastiffs follow'd him,His whole retinue and his nightly guard.

Truth

Man, on the dubious waves of error toss'd,His ship half founder'd, and his compass lost,Sees, far as human optics may command,A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land;Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies;Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies!Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes,His well-built systems, philosophic dreams;Deceitful views of future bliss, farewell!He reads his sentence at the flames of hell.Hard lot of man—to toil for the rewardOf virtue, and yet lose it! Wherefore hard?—He that would win the race must guide his horseObedient to the customs of the course;Else, though unequall’d to the goal he flies,A meaner than himself shall gain the prize.Grace leads the right way: if you choose the wrong,Take it and perish; but restrain your tongue;Charge not, with light sufficient and left free,Your wilful suicide on God’s decree.O how unlike the complex works of man,Heav’n’s easy, artless, unencumber’d plan!No meretricious graces to beguile,No clustering ornaments to clog the pile;From ostentation, as from weakness, free,It stands like the cerulian arch we see,Majestic in its own simplicity.Inscribed above the portal, from afarConspicuous as the brightness of a star,Legible only by the light they give,Stand the soul-quickening words—believe, and live.Too many, shock’d at what should charm them most,Despise the plain direction, and are lost.Heaven on such terms! (they cry with proud disdain)Incredible, impossible, and vain!—Rebel, because ‘tis easy to obey;And scorn, for its own sake, the gracious way.These are the sober, in whose cooler brainsSome thought of immortality remains;The rest too busy or too gay to waitOn the sad theme, their everlasting state,Sport for a day, and perish in a night;The foam upon the waters not so light.Who judged the Pharisee? What odious cause Exposed him to the vengeance of the laws?Had he seduced a virgin, wrong’d a friend,Or stabb’d a man to serve some private end?Was blasphemy his sin? Or did he strayFrom the strict duties of the sacred day?Sit long and late at the carousing board?(Such were the sins with which he charged his Lord.)No—the man’s morals were exact. What then?‘Twas his ambition to be seen of men;His virtues were his pride; and that one viceMade all his virtues gewgaws of no price;He wore them as fine trappings for a show,A praying, synagogue-frequenting beau.The self-applauding bird, the peacock, see—Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he!Meridian sunbeams tempt him to unfoldHis radiant glories, azure, green, and gold:He treads as if, some solemn music near,His measured step were govern’d by his ear;And seems to say—Ye meaner fowl give place;I am all splendour, dignity, and grace!Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes,Though he, too, has a glory in his plumes.He, Christian-like, retreats with modest mienTo the close copse or far sequester’d green,And shines without desiring to be seen.The plea of works, as arrogant and vain,Heaven turns from with abhorrence and disdain;Not more affronted by avow’d neglect,Than by the mere dissembler’s feign’d respect.What is all righteousness that men devise?What—but a sordid bargain for the skies!But Christ as soon would abdicate his own,As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne.His dwelling a recess in some rude rock;Book, beads, and maple dish, his meagre stock;In shirt of hair and weeds of canvas dress’d,Girt with a bell-rope that the Pope has bless’d;Adust with stripes told out for every crime,And sore tormented, long before his time;His prayer preferr’d to saints that cannot aid,His praise postponed, and never to be paid;See the sage hermit, by mankind admired,With all that bigotry adopts inspired,Wearing out life in his religious whim,Till his religious whimsy wears out him.His works, his abstinence, his zeal allow’d,You think him humble—God accounts him proud.High in demand, though lowly in pretence,Of all his conduct this the genuine sense—My penitential stripes, my streaming blood,Have purchased heaven, and proved my title good.Turn eastward now, and fancy shall applyTo your weak sight her telescopic eye.The Bramin kindles on his own bare headThe sacred fire, self-torturing his trade!His voluntary pains, severe and long,Would give a barbarous air to British song;No grand inquisitor could worse invent,Than he contrives to suffer well content.Which is the saintlier worthy of the two?Past all dispute, yon anchorite, say you.Your sentence and mine differ. What’s a name?I say the Bramin has the fairer claim.If sufferings Scripture nowhere recommends,Devised by self, to answer selfish ends,Give saintship, then all Europe must agreeTen starveling hermits suffer less than he.The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear,And prejudice have left a passage clear)Pride has attain’d a most luxuriant growth,And poison’d every virtue in them both.Pride may be pamper’d while the flesh grows lean;Humility may clothe an English dean;That grace was Cowper’s—his, confess’d by all—Though placed in golden Durham’s second stall.Not all the plenty of a bishop’s board,His palace, and his lacqueys, and “My Lord,”More nourish pride, that condescending vice,Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice;It thrives in misery, and abundant grows:In misery fools upon themselves impose.But why before us Protestants produceAn Indian mystic or a French recluse?Their sin is plain; but what have we to fear,Reform’d and well instructed? You shall hear.Yon ancient prude, whose wither’d features shewShe might be young some forty years ago,Her elbows pinion’d close upon her hips,Her head erect, her fan upon her lips,Her eyebrows arch’d, her eyes both gone astrayTo watch yon amorous couple in their play,With bony and unkerchief’d neck defiesThe rude inclemency of wintry skies,And sails with lappet head and mincing airsDuly at clink of bell to morning prayers.To thrift and parsimony much inclined,She yet allows herself that boy behind;The shivering urchin, bending as he goes,With slipshod heels and dewdrop at his nose,His predecessor’s coat advanced to wear,Which future pages yet are doom’d to share,Carries her Bible tuck’d beneath his arm,And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm.She, half an angel in her own account,Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount,Though not a grace appears on strictest search,But that she fasts, and item, goes to church.Conscious of age, she recollects her youth,And tells, not always with an eye to truth,Who spann’d her waist, and who, where’er he came,Scrawl’d upon glass Miss Bridget’s lovely name;Who stole her slipper, fill’d it with tokay,And drank the little bumper every day.Of temper as envenom’d as an asp,Censorious, and her every word a wasp;In faithful memory she records the crimes,Or real, or fictitious, of the times;Laughs at the reputations she has torn,And holds them dangling at arm’s length in scorn.Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride,Of malice fed while flesh is mortified:Take, madam, the reward of all your prayers,Where hermits and where Bramins meet with theirs;Your portion is with them.—Nay, never frown,But, if you please, some fathoms lower down.Artist, attend—your brushes and your paint—Produce them—take a chair—now draw a saint.Oh, sorrowful and sad! the streaming tearsChannel her cheeks—a Niobe appears!Is this a saint? Throw tints and all away—True piety is cheerful as the day,Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groanFor others’ woes, but smiles upon her own.What purpose has the King of saints in view?Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew?To call up plenty from the teeming earth,Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth?Is it that Adam’s offspring may be savedFrom servile fear, or be the more enslaved?To loose the links that gall’d mankind before.Or bind them faster on, and add still more?The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove,Or, if a chain, the golden one of love:No fear attends to quench his glowing fires,What fear he feels his gratitude inspires.Shall he, for such deliverance freely wrought,Recompense ill? He trembles at the thought.His Master’s interest and his own combinedPrompt every movement of his heart and mind:Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince,His freedom is the freedom of a prince.Man’s obligations infinite, of courseHis life should prove that he perceives their force;His utmost he can render is but small—The principle and motive all in all.You have two servants—Tom, an arch, sly rogue,From top to toe the Geta now in vogue,Genteel in figure, easy in address,Moves without noise, and swift as an express,Reports a message with a pleasing grace,Expert in all the duties of his place;Say, on what hinge does his obedience move?Has he a world of gratitude and love?No, not a spark—’tis all mere sharper’s play;He likes your house, your housemaid, and your pay;Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,Tom quits you, with—Your most obedient, sir.The dinner served, Charles takes his usual stand,Watches your eye, anticipates command;Sighs, if perhaps your appetite should fail;And, if he but suspects a frown, turns pale;Consults all day your interest and your ease,Richly rewarded if he can but please;And, proud to make his firm attachment known,To save your life would nobly risk his own.Now which stands highest in your serious thought?Charles, without doubt, say you—and so he ought;One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds,Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds.Thus Heaven approves as honest and sincereThe work of generous love and filial fear;But with averted eyes the omniscient JudgeScorns the base hireling and the slavish drudge.Where dwell these matchless saints? old Curio cries.E’en at your side, sir, and before your eyes,The favour’d few—the enthusiasts you despise.And, pleased at heart because on holy ground,Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found,Reproach a people with his single fall,And cast his filthy raiment at them all.Attend! an apt similitude shall shewWhence springs the conduct that offends you so.See where it smokes along the sounding plain,Blown all aslant, a driving, dashing rain,Peal upon peal redoubling all around,Shakes it again and faster to the ground;Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play,Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away.Ere yet it came the traveller urged his steed,And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed;Now drench’d throughout, and hopeless of his case,He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace.Suppose, unlook’d-for in a scene so rude,Long hid by interposing hill or wood,By some kind hospitable heart possess’d,Offer him warmth, security, and rest;Think with what pleasure, safe, and at his ease,He hears the tempest howling in the trees;What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ,While danger past is turn’d to present joy.So fares it with the sinner, when he feelsA growing dread of vengeance at his heels:His conscience like a glassy lake before,Lash’d into foaming waves, begins to roar;The law, grown clamorous, though silent long,Arraigns him, charges him with every wrong—Asserts the right of his offended Lord,And death, or restitution, is the word:The last impossible, he fears the first,And, having well deserved, expects the worst.Then welcome refuge and a peaceful home;O for a shelter from the wrath to come!Crush me, ye rocks; ye falling mountains, hide,Or bury me in ocean’s angry tide!—The scrutiny of those all-seeing eyesI dare not—And you need not, God replies;The remedy you want I freely give;The Book shall teach you—read, believe, and live!‘Tis done—the raging storm is heard no more,Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore:And Justice, guardian of the dread command,Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand.A soul redeem’d demands a life of praise;Hence the complexion of his future days,Hence a demeanour holy and unspeck’d,And the world’s hatred, as its sure effect.Some lead a life unblameable and just,Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust:They never sin—or if (as all offend)Some trivial slips their daily walk attend,The poor are near at hand, the charge is small,A slight gratuity atones for all.For though the Pope has lost his interest here,And pardons are not sold as once they were,No Papist more desirous to compound,Than some grave sinners upon English ground.That plea refuted, other quirks they seek—Mercy is infinite, and man is weak;The future shall obliterate the past,And heaven, no doubt, shall be their home at last.Come, then—a still, small whisper in your ear—He has no hope who never had a fear;And he that never doubted of his state,He may perhaps—perhaps he may—too late.The path to bliss abounds with many a snare;Learning is one, and wit, however rare.The Frenchman, first in literary fame(Mention him, if you please. Voltaire?—The same),With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied,Lived long, wrote much, laugh’d heartily, and died;The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drewBon-mots to gall the Christian and the Jew;An infidel in health, but what when sick?Oh—then a text would touch him at the quick;View him at Paris in his last career,Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere;Exalted on his pedestal of pride,And fumed with frankincense on every side,He begs their flattery with his latest breath,And, smother’d in’t at last, is praised to death!Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door,Pillow and bobbins all her little store;Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay,Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,Just earns a scanty pittance, and at nightLies down secure, her heart and pocket light;She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,Has little understanding, and no wit,Receives no praise; but though her lot be such(Toilsome and indigent), she renders much;Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true—A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew;And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes,Her title to a treasure in the skies.Oh, happy peasant! Oh, unhappy bard!His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward;He praised perhaps for ages yet to come,She never heard of half a mile from home:He, lost in errors, his vain heart prefers,She, safe in the simplicity of hers.Not many wise, rich, noble, or profoundIn science win one inch of heavenly ground.And is it not a mortifying thoughtThe poor should gain it, and the rich should not?No—the voluptuaries, who ne’er forgetOne pleasure lost, lose heaven without regret;Regret would rouse them, and give birth to prayer,Prayer would add faith, and faith would fix them there.Not that the Former of us all in this,Or aught he does, is govern’d by caprice;The supposition is replete with sin,And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in.Not so—the silver trumpet’s heavenly callSounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all:Kings are invited, and would kings obey,No slaves on earth more welcome were than they;But royalty, nobility, and state,Are such a dead preponderating weight,That endless bliss (how strange soe’er it seem),In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam.‘Tis open, and ye cannot enter—why?Because ye will not, Conyers would reply—And he says much that many may disputeAnd cavil at with ease, but none refute.Oh, bless’d effect of penury and want,The seed sown there, how vigorous is the plant!No soil like poverty for growth divine,As leanest land supplies the richest wine.Earth gives too little, giving only bread,To nourish pride, or turn the weakest head:To them the sounding jargon of the schoolsSeems what it is—a cap and bells for fools:The light they walk by, kindled from above,Shews them the shortest way to life and love:They, strangers to the controversial field,Where deists, always foil’d, yet scorn to yield,And never check’d by what impedes the wise,Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize.Envy, ye great, the dull unletter’d small:Ye have much cause for envy—but not all.We boast some rich ones whom the Gospel sways,And one who wears a coronet, and prays;Like gleanings of an olive-tree, they shewHere and there one upon the topmost bough.How readily, upon the Gospel plan,That question has its answer—What is man?Sinful and weak, in every sense a wretch;An instrument, whose chords, upon the stretch,And strain’d to the last screw that he can bear,Yield only discord in his Maker’s ear;Once the blest residence of truth divine,Glorious as Solyma’s interior shrine,Where, in his own oracular bode,Dwelt visibly the light-creating God;But made long since, like Babylon of old,A den of mischiefs never to be told:And she, once mistress of the realms around,Now scatter’d wide and nowhere to be found,As soon shall rise and re-ascend the throne,By native power and energy her own,As nature, at her own peculiar cost,Restore to man the glories he has lost.Go—bid the winter cease to chill the year,Replace the wandering comet in his sphere.Then boast (but wait for that unhoped-for hour)The self-restoring arm of human power.But what is man in his own proud esteem?Hear him—himself the poet and the theme:A monarch clothed with majesty and awe,His mind his kingdom, and his will his law;Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes,Supreme on earth, and worthy of the skies,Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod,And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God!So sings he, charm’d with his own mind and form,The song magnificent—the theme a worm!Himself so much the source of his delight,His Maker has no beauty in his sight.See where he sits, contemplative and fix’d,Pleasure and wonder in his features mix’d,His passions tamed and all at his control,How perfect the composure of his soul!Complacency has breathed a gentle galeO’er all his thoughts, and swell’d his easy sail:His books well trimm’d, and in the gayest style,Like regimental coxcombs, rank and file,Adorn his intellects as well as shelves,And teach him notions splendid as themselves:The Bible only stands neglected there,Though that of all most worthy of his care;And, like an infant troublesome awake,Is left to sleep for peace and quiet sake.What shall the man deserve of human kind,Whose happy skill and industry combinedShall prove (what argument could never yet)The Bible an imposture and a cheat?The praises of the libertine profess’d,The worst of men, and curses of the best.Where should the living, weeping o’er his woes;The dying, trembling at the awful close;Where the betray’d, forsaken, and oppress’d;The thousands whom the world forbids to rest;Where should they find (those comforts at an end,The Scripture yields), or hope to find, a friend?Sorrow might muse herself to madness then,And, seeking exile from the sight of men,Bury herself in solitude profound,Grow frantic with her pangs, and bite the ground.Thus often Unbelief, grown sick of life,Flies to the tempting pool, or felon knife.The jury meet, the coroner is short,And lunacy the verdict of the court.Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known,Such lunacy is ignorance alone;They knew not, what some bishops may not know,That Scripture is the only cure of woe.That field of promise how it flings abroadIts odour o’er the Christian’s thorny road!The soul, reposing on assured relief,Feels herself happy amidst all her grief,Forgets her labour as she toils along,Weeps tears of joy, and bursts into a song.But the same word, that, like the polish’d share,Ploughs up the roots of a believer’s care,Kills too the flowery weeds, where’er they grow,That bind the sinner’s Bacchanalian brow.Oh, that unwelcome voice of heavenly love,Sad messenger of mercy from above!How does it grate upon his thankless ear,Crippling his pleasures with the cramp of fear!His will and judgment at continual strife,That civil war embitters all his life;In vain he points his powers against the skies,In vain he closes or averts his eyes,Truth will intrude—she bids him yet beware;And shakes the sceptic in the scorner’s chair.Though various foes against the Truth combine,Pride above all opposes her design;Pride of a growth superior to the rest,The subtlest serpent with the loftiest crest,Swells at the thought, and, kindling into rage,Would hiss the cherub Mercy from the stage.And is the soul indeed so lost?—she cries,Fallen from her glory, and too weak to rise?Torpid and dull, beneath a frozen zone,Has she no spark that may be deem’d her own?Grant her indebted to what zealots callGrace undeserved, yet surely not for all!Some beams of rectitude she yet displays,Some love of virtue, and some power to praise;Can lift herself above corporeal things,And, soaring on her own unborrow’d wings,Possess herself of all that’s good or true,Assert the skies, and vindicate her due.Past indiscretion is a venial crime;And if the youth, unmellow’d yet by time,Bore on his branch, luxuriant then and rude,Fruits of a blighted size, austere and crude,Maturer years shall happier stores produce,And meliorate the well-concocted juice.Then, conscious of her meritorious zeal,To justice she may make her bold appeal;And leave to Mercy, with a tranquil mind,The worthless and unfruitful of mankind,Hear then how Mercy, slighted and defied,Retorts the affront against the crown of pride.Perish the virtue, as it ought, abhorr’d,And the fool with it, who insults his Lord.The atonement a Redeemer’s love has wroughtIs not for you—the righteous need it not.Seest thou yon harlot, wooing all she meets,The worn-out nuisance of the public streets,Herself from morn to night, from night to morn,Her own abhorrence, and as much your scorn?The gracious shower, unlimited and free,Shall fall on her, when Heaven denies it thee.Of all that wisdom dictates, this the drift—That man is dead in sin, and life a gift.Is virtue, then, unless of Christian growth,Mere fallacy, or foolishness, or both?Ten thousand sages lost in endless woe,For ignorance of what they could not know?—That speech betrays at once a bigot’s tongue,Charge not a God with such outrageous wrong!Truly, not I—the partial light men have,My creed persuades me, well employ’d, may save;While he that scorns the noon-day beam, perverse,Shall find the blessing, unimproved, a curse.Let heathen worthies, whose exalted mindLeft sensuality and dross behind,Possess, for me, their undisputed lot,And take, unenvied, the reward they sought,But still in virtue of a Saviour’s plea,Not blind by choice, but destined not to see.Their fortitude and wisdom were a flameCelestial, though they knew not whence it came,Derived from the same source of light and grace,That guides the Christian in his swifter race;Their judge was conscience, and her rule their law;That rule, pursued with reverence and with awe,Led them, however faltering, faint, and slow,From what they knew to what they wish’d to know.But let not him that shares a brighter dayTraduce the splendour of a noontide ray,Prefer the twilight of a darker time,And deem his base stupidity no crime;The wretch, who slights the bounty of the skies,And sinks, while favour’d with the means to rise,Shall find them rated at their full amount,The good he scorn’d all carried to account.Marshalling all his terrors as he came,Thunder, and earthquake, and devouring flame,From Sinai’s top Jehovah gave the law—Life for obedience—death for every flaw.When the great Sovereign would his will express,He gives a perfect rule, what can he less?And guards it with a sanction as severeAs vengeance can inflict, or sinners fear:Else his own glorious rights he would disclaim,And man might safely trifle with his name.He bids him glow with unremitting loveTo all on earth, and to himself above;Condemns the injurious deed, the slanderous tongue,The thought that meditates a brother’s wrong:Brings not alone the more conspicuous part,His conduct, to the test, but tries his heart.Hark! universal nature shook and groan’d,‘Twas the last trumpet—see the Judge enthroned:Rouse all your courage at your utmost need,Now summon every virtue, stand and plead.What! silent? Is your boasting heard no more?That self-renouncing wisdom, learn’d before,Had shed immortal glories on your brow,That all your virtues cannot purchase now.All joy to the believer! He can speak—Trembling yet happy, confident yet meek.Since the dear hour that brought me to thy foot,And cut up all my follies by the root,Nor hoped, but in thy righteousness divine:My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled,Were but the feeble efforts of a child;Howe’er perform’d, it was their brightest part,That they proceeded from a grateful heart:Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood,Forgive their evil and accept their good:I cast them at thy feet—my only pleaIs what it was, dependence upon thee:While struggling in the vale of tears below,That never fail’d, nor shall it fail me now.Angelic gratulations rend the skies,Pride fall unpitied, never more to rise,Humility is crown’d, and Faith receives the prize.

Charity

Fairest and foremost of the train that waitOn man's most dignified and happiest state,Whether we name thee Charity or Love,Chief grace below, and all in all above,Prosper (I press thee with a powerful plea)A task I venture on, impell’d by thee:Oh never seen but in thy blest effects,Or felt but in the soul that Heaven selects;Who seeks to praise thee, and to make thee knownTo other hearts, must have thee in his own.Come, prompt me with benevolent desires,Teach me to kindle at thy gentle fires,And, though disgraced and slighted, to redeemA poet’s name, by making thee the theme.God, working ever on a social plan,By various ties attaches man to man:He made at first, though free and unconfined,One man the common father of the kind;That every tribe, though placed as he sees best,Where seas or deserts part them from the rest,Differing in language, manners, or in face,Might feel themselves allied to all the race.When Cook—lamented, and with tears as justAs ever mingled with heroic dust—Steer’d Britain’s oak into a world unknown,And in his country’s glory sought his own,Wherever he found man to nature true,The rights of man were sacred in his view;He soothed with gifts, and greeted with a smile,The simple native of the new-found isle;He spurn’d the wretch that slighted or withstoodThe tender argument of kindred blood;Nor would endure that any should controlHis freeborn brethren of the southern pole.But, though some nobler minds a law respect,That none shall with impunity neglect,In baser souls unnumber’d evils meet,To thwart its influence, and its end defeat.While Cook is loved for savage lives he saved,See Cortez odious for a world enslaved!Where wast thou then, sweet Charity? where then,Thou tutelary friend of helpless men?Wast thou in monkish cells and nunneries found,Or building hospitals on English ground?No.—Mammon makes the world his legateeThrough fear, not love; and Heaven abhors the fee.Wherever found (and all men need thy care),Nor age, nor infancy could find thee there.The hand that slew till it could slay no more,Was glued to the sword-hilt with Indian gore.Their prince, as justly seated on his throneAs vain imperial Philip on his own,Trick’d out of all his royalty by art,That stripp’d him bare, and broke his honest heart,Died, by the sentence of a shaven priest,For scorning what they taught him to detest.How dark the veil that intercepts the blazeOf Heaven’s mysterious purposes and ways!God stood not, though he seem’d to stand, aloof;And at this hour the conqueror feels the proof:The wreath he won drew down an instant curse,The fretting plague is in the public purse,The canker’d spoil corrodes the pining state,Starved by that indolence their mines create.Oh, could their ancient Incas rise again,How would they take up Israel’s taunting strain!Art thou too fallen, Iberia? Do we seeThe robber and the murderer weak as we?Thou that hast wasted earth, and dared despiseAlike the wrath and mercy of the skies,Thy pomp is in the grave, thy glory laidLow in the pits thine avarice has made.We come with joy from our eternal restTo see the oppressor in his turn oppress’d.Art thou the god, the thunder of whose handRoll’d over all our desolated land,Shook principalities and kingdoms down,And made the mountains tremble at his frown?The sword shall light upon thy boasted powers,And waste them, as thy sword has wasted ours.‘Tis thus Omnipotence his law fulfils,And vengeance executes what justice wills.Again—the band of commerce was design’d To associate all the branches of mankind;And if a boundless plenty be the robe,Trade is the golden girdle of the globe.Wise to promote whatever end he means,God opens fruitful Nature’s various scenes:Each climate needs what other climes produce,And offers something to the general use;No land but listens to the common call, And in return receives supply from all.This genial intercourse, and mutual aid,Cheers what were else a universal shade,Calls nature from her ivy-mantled den,And softens human rock-work into men.Ingenious Art, with her expressive face,Steps forth to fashion and refine the race;Not only fills necessity’s demand,But overcharges her capacious hand:Capricious taste itself can crave no moreThan she supplies from her abounding store:She strikes out all that luxury can ask,And gains new vigour at her endless task.Hers is the spacious arch, the shapely spire,The painter’s pencil, and the poet’s lyre;From her the canvas borrows light and shade,And verse, more lasting, hues that never fade.She guides the finger o’er the dancing keys,Gives difficulty all the grace of ease,And pours a torrent of sweet notes aroundFast as the thirsting ear can drink the sound.These are the gifts of art; and art thrives mostWhere Commerce has enrich’d the busy coast;He catches all improvements in his flight,Spreads foreign wonders in his country’s sight,Imports what others have invented well,And stirs his own to match them, or excel.‘Tis thus, reciprocating each with each,Alternately the nations learn and teach;While Providence enjoins to ev’ry soulA union with the vast terraqueous whole.Heaven speed the canvas gallantly unfurl’dTo furnish and accommodate a world,To give the pole the produce of the sun,And knit the unsocial climates into one.Soft airs and gentle heavings of the waveImpel the fleet, whose errand is to save,To succour wasted regions, and replaceThe smile of opulence in sorrow’s face.Let nothing adverse, nothing unforeseen,Impede the bark that ploughs the deep serene,Charged with a freight transcending in its worthThe gems of India, Nature’s rarest birth,That flies, like Gabriel on his Lord’s commands,A herald of God’s love to pagan lands!But ah! what wish can prosper, or what prayer,For merchants rich in cargoes of despair,Who drive a loathsome traffic, gauge, and span,And buy the muscles and the bones of man?The tender ties of father, husband, friend,All bonds of nature in that moment end;And each endures, while yet he draws his breath,A stroke as fatal as the scythe of death.The sable warrior, frantic with regretOf her he loves, and never can forget,Loses in tears the far-receding shore,But not the thought that they must meet no more;Deprived of her and freedom at a blow,What has he left that he can yet forego?Yes, to deep sadness sullenly resign’d,He feels his body’s bondage in his mind;Puts off his generous nature, and to suitHis manners with his fate, puts on the brute.Oh most degrading of all ills that waitOn man, a mourner in his best estate!All other sorrows virtue may endure,And find submission more than half a cure;Grief is itself a medicine, and bestow’dTo improve the fortitude that bears the load;To teach the wanderer, as his woes increase,The path of wisdom, all whose paths are peace;But slavery!—Virtue dreads it as her grave:Patience itself is meanness in a slave;Or, if the will and sovereignty of GodBid suffer it a while, and kiss the rod,Wait for the dawning of a brighter day,And snap the chain the moment when you may.Nature imprints upon whate’er we see,That has a heart and life in it, Be free!The beasts are charter’d—neither age nor forceCan quell the love of freedom in a horse:He breaks the cord that held him at the rack;And, conscious of an unencumber’d back,Snuffs up the morning air, forgets the rein;Loose fly his forelock and his ample mane;Responsive to the distant neigh, he neighs;Nor stops, till, overleaping all delays,He finds the pasture where his fellows graze.Canst thou, and honour’d with a Christian name,Buy what is woman-born, and feel no shame?Trade in the blood of innocence, and pleadExpedience as a warrant for the deed?So may the wolf, whom famine has made boldTo quit the forest and invade the fold:So may the ruffian, who with ghostly glide,Dagger in hand, steals close to your bedside;Not he, but his emergence forced the door,He found it inconvenient to be poor.Has God then given its sweetness to the cane,Unless his laws be trampled on—in vain?Built a brave world, which cannot yet subsist,Unless his right to rule it be dismiss’d?Impudent blasphemy! So folly pleads,And, avarice being judge, with ease succeeds.But grant the plea, and let it stand for just,That man make man his prey, because he must;Still there is room for pity to abateAnd soothe the sorrows of so sad a state.A Briton knows, or if he knows it not,The Scripture placed within his reach, he ought,That souls have no discriminating hue,Alike important in their Maker’s view;That none are free from blemish since the fall,And love divine has paid one price for all.The wretch that works and weeps without reliefHas One that notices his silent grief.He, from whose hand alone all power proceeds,Ranks its abuse among the foulest deeds,Considers all injustice with a frown;But marks the man that treads his fellow down.Begone!—the whip and bell in that hard handAre hateful ensigns of usurp’d command.Not Mexico could purchase kings a claimTo scourge him, weariness his only blame.Remember, Heaven has an avenging rod,To smite the poor is treason against God!Trouble is grudgingly and hardly brook’d,While life’s sublimest joys are overlook’d:We wander o’er a sunburnt thirsty soil,Murmuring and weary of our daily toil,Forget to enjoy the palm-tree’s offer’d shade,Or taste the fountain in the neighbouring glade:Else who would lose, that had the power to improveThe occasion of transmuting fear to love?Oh, ‘tis a godlike privilege to save!And he that scorns it is himself a slave.Inform his mind; one flash of heavenly dayWould heal his heart, and melt his chains away.“Beauty for ashes” is a gift indeed,And slaves, by truth enlarged, are doubly freed.Then would he say, submissive at thy feet,While gratitude and love made service sweet,My dear deliverer out of hopeless night,Whose bounty bought me but to give me light,I was a bondman on my native plain,Sin forged, and ignorance made fast, the chain;Thy lips have shed instruction as the dew,Taught me what path to shun, and what pursue;Farewell my former joys! I sigh no moreFor Africa’s once loved, benighted shore;Serving a benefactor, I am free;At my best home, if not exiled from thee.Some men make gain a fountain whence proceedsA stream of liberal and heroic deeds;The swell of pity, not to be confinedWithin the scanty limits of the mind,Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands,A rich deposit, on the bordering lands:These have an ear for his paternal call,Who make some rich for the supply of all;God’s gift with pleasure in his praise employ;And Thornton is familiar with the joy.Oh, could I worship aught beneath the skiesThat earth has seen, or fancy can devise,Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand,Built by no mercenary vulgar hand,With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fairAs ever dress’d a bank, or scented summer air.Duly, as ever on the mountain’s heightThe peep of morning shed a dawning light,Again, when evening in her sober vestDrew the grey curtain of the fading west,My soul should yield thee willing thanks and praiseFor the chief blessings of my fairest days;But that were sacrilege—praise is not thine,But his who gave thee, and preserves thee mine:Else I would say, and as I spake bid flyA captive bird into the boundless sky,This triple realm adores thee—thou art comeFrom Sparta hither, and art here at home.We feel thy force still active, at this hourEnjoy immunity from priestly power,While conscience, happier than in ancient years,Owns no superior but the God she fears.Propitious spirit! yet expunge a wrongThy rights have suffer’d, and our land, too long.Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts, that shareThe fears and hopes of a commercial care.Prisons expect the wicked, and were builtTo bind the lawless, and to punish guilt;But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood,Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood;And honest merit stands on slippery ground,Where covert guile and artifice abound.Let just restraint, for public peace design’d,Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind;The foe of virtue has no claim to thee,But let insolvent innocence go free.Patron of else the most despised of men,Accept the tribute of a stranger’s pen;Verse, like the laurel, its immortal meed,Should be the guerdon of a noble deed;I may alarm thee, but I fear the shame(Charity chosen as my theme and aim)I must incur, forgetting Howard’s name.Blest with all wealth can give thee, to resignJoys doubly sweet to feelings quick as thine,To quit the bliss thy rural scenes bestow,To seek a nobler amidst scenes of woe,To traverse seas, range kingdoms, and bring home,Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome,But knowledge such as only dungeons teach,And only sympathy like thine could reach;That grief, sequester’d from the public stage,Might smooth her feathers, and enjoy her cage;Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal,The boldest patriot might be proud to feel.Oh that the voice of clamour and debate,That pleads for peace till it disturbs the state,Were hush’d in favour of thy generous plea,The poor thy clients, and Heaven’s smile thy fee!Philosophy, that does not dream or stray,Walks arm in arm with nature all his way;Compasses earth, dives into it, ascendsWhatever steep inquiry recommends,Sees planetary wonders smoothly rollRound other systems under her control,Drinks wisdom at the milky stream of light,That cheers the silent journey of the night,And brings at his return a bosom chargedWith rich instruction, and a soul enlarged.The treasured sweets of the capacious plan,That Heaven spreads wide before the view of man.All prompt his pleased pursuit, and to pursueStill prompt him, with a pleasure always new;He too has a connecting power, and drawsMan to the centre of the common cause,Aiding a dubious and deficient sightWith a new medium and a purer light.All truth is precious, if not all divine;And what dilates the powers must needs refine.He reads the skies, and, watching every change,Provides the faculties an ampler range;And wins mankind, as his attempts prevail,A prouder station on the general scale.But reason still, unless divinely taught,Whate’er she learns, learns nothing as she ought;The lamp of revelation only shews,What human wisdom cannot but oppose,That man, in nature’s richest mantle clad,And graced with all philosophy can add,Though fair without, and luminous within,Is still the progeny and heir of sin.Thus taught, down falls the plumage of his pride;He feels his need of an unerring guide,And knows that falling he shall rise no more,Unless the power that bade him stand restore.This is indeed philosophy; this knownMakes wisdom, worthy of the name, his own;And without this, whatever he discuss;Whether the space between the stars and us;Whether he measure earth, compute the sea,Weigh sunbeams, carve a fly, or spit a flea;The solemn trifler with his boasted skillToils much, and is a solemn trifler still:Blind was he born, and his misguided eyesGrown dim in trifling studies, blind he dies.Self-knowledge truly learn’d of course impliesThe rich possession of a nobler prize;For self to self, and God to man, reveal’d(Two themes to nature’s eye for ever seal’d),Are taught by rays, that fly with equal paceFrom the same centre of enlightening grace.Here stay thy foot; how copious, and how clear,The o’erflowing well of Charity springs here!Hark! ‘tis the music of a thousand rills,Some through the groves, some down the sloping hills,Winding a secret or an open course,And all supplied from an eternal source.The ties of nature do but feebly bind,And commerce partially reclaims mankind;Philosophy, without his heavenly guide,May blow up self-conceit, and nourish pride;But, while his province is the reasoning part,Has still a veil of midnight on his heart:‘Tis truth divine, exhibited on earth,Gives Charity her being and her birth.Suppose (when thought is warm, and fancy flows,What will not argument sometimes suppose?)An isle possess’d by creatures of our kind,Endued with reason, yet by nature blind.Let supposition lend her aid once more,And land some grave optician on the shore:He claps his lens, if haply they may see,Close to the part where vision ought to be;But finds that, though his tubes assist the sight,They cannot give it, or make darkness light.He reads wise lectures, and describes aloudA sense they know not to the wondering crowd;He talks of light and the prismatic hues,As men of depth in erudition use;But all he gains for his harangue is—Well,—What monstrous lies some travellers will tell!The soul, whose sight all-quickening grace renews,Takes the resemblance of the good she views,As diamonds, stripp’d of their opaque disguise,Reflect the noonday glory of the skies.She speaks of Him, her author, guardian, friend,Whose love knew no beginning, knows no end,In language warm as all that love inspires;And, in the glow of her intense desires,Pants to communicate her noble fires.She sees a world stark blind to what employsHer eager thought,and feeds her flowing joys;Though wisdom hail them, heedless of her call,Flies to save some, and feels a pang for all:Herself as weak as her support is strong,She feels that frailty she denied so long;And, from a knowledge of her own disease,Learns to compassionate the sick she sees.Here see, acquitted of all vain pretence,The reign of genuine Charity commence.Though scorn repay her sympathetic tears,She still is kind, and still she perseveres;The truth she loves a sightless world blaspheme,‘Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream!The danger they discern not they deny;Laugh at their only remedy, and die.But still a soul thus touch’d can never cease,Whoever threatens war, to speak of peace.Pure in her aim, and in her temper mild,Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child:She makes excuses where she might condemn,Reviled by those that hate her, prays for them;Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast,The worst suggested, she believes the best;Not soon provoked, however stung and teased,And, if perhaps made angry, soon appeased;She rather waives than will dispute her right;And, injured, makes forgiveness her delight.Such was the portrait an apostle drew,The bright original was one he knew;Heaven held his hand, the likeness must be true.When one, that holds communion with the skies,Has fill’d his urn where these pure waters rise,And once more mingles with us meaner things,‘Tis e’en as if an angel shook his wings;Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.So when a ship, well freighted with the storesThe sun matures on India’s spicy shores,Has dropp’d her anchor, and her canvas furl’d,In some safe haven of our western world,‘Twere vain inquiry to what port she went,The gale informs us, laden with the scent.Some seek, when queasy conscience has its qualms,To lull the painful malady with alms;But charity not feign’d intends aloneAnother’s good—theirs centres in their own;And, too short-lived to reach the realms of peace,Must cease for ever when the poor shall cease.Flavia, most tender of her own good name,Is rather careless of her sister’s fame:Her superfluity the poor supplies,But, if she touch a character, it dies.The seeming virtue weigh’d against the vice,She deems all safe, for she has paid the price:No charity but alms aught values she,Except in porcelain on her mantel-tree.How many deeds, with which the world has rung,From pride, in league with ignorance, have sprung!But God o’errules all human follies still,And bends the tough materials to his will.A conflagration, or a wintry flood,Has left some hundreds without home or food:Extravagance and avarice shall subscribe,While fame and self-complacence are the bribe.The brief proclaim’d, it visits every pew,But first the squire’s, a compliment but due:With slow deliberation he untiesHis glittering purse, that envy of all eyes!And, while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm,Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm;Till finding, what he might have found before,A smaller piece amidst the precious store,Pinch’d close between his finger and his thumb,He half exhibits, and then drops the sum.Gold, to be sure!—Throughout the town ‘tis toldHow the good squire gives never less than gold.From motives such as his, though not the best,Springs in due time supply for the distress’d;Not less effectual than what love bestows,Except that office clips it as it goes.But lest I seem to sin against a friend,And wound the grace I mean to recommend(Though vice derided with a just designImplies no trespass against love divine),Once more I would adopt the graver style,A teacher should be sparing of his smile.Unless a love of virtue light the flame,Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame:He hides behind a magisterial airHis own offences, and strips others bare;Affects indeed a most humane concern,That men, if gently tutor’d, will not learn;That mulish folly, not to be reclaim’dBy softer methods, must be made ashamed;But (I might instance in St. Patrick’s dean)Too often rails to gratify his spleen.Most satirists are indeed a public scourge;Their mildest physic is a farrier’s purge;Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr’d,The milk of their good purpose all to curd.Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse,By lean despair upon an empty purse,The wild assassins start into the street,Prepared to poniard whomsoe’er they meet,No skill in swordmanship, however just,Can be secure against a madman’s thrust;And even virtue, so unfairly match’d,Although immortal, may be prick’d or scratch’d.When scandal has new minted an old lie,Or tax’d invention for a fresh supply,‘Tis call’d a satire, and the world appearsGathering around it with erected ears:A thousand names are toss’d into the crowd;Some whisper’d softly, and some twang’d aloud,Just as the sapience of an author’s brainSuggests it safe or dangerous to be plain.Strange! how the frequent interjected dashQuickens a market, and helps off the trash;The important letters that include the rest,Serve as key to those that are suppress’d;Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw,The world is charm’d, and Scrib escapes the law.So, when the cold damp shades of night prevail,Worms may be caught by either head or tail;Forcibly drawn from many a close recess,They meet with little pity, no redress;Plunged in the stream, they lodge upon the mud,Food for the famish’d rovers of the flood.All zeal for a reform, that gives offenceTo peace and charity, is mere pretence:A bold remark; but which, if well applied,Would humble many a towering poet’s pride.Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit,And had no other play-place for his wit;Perhaps, enchanted with the love of fame,He sought the jewel in his neighbour’s shame;Perhaps—whatever end he might pursue,The cause of virtue could not be his view.At every stroke wit flashes in our eyes;The turns are quick, the polish’d points surprise,But shine with cruel and tremendous charms,That, while they please, possess us with alarms;So have I seen (and hasten’d to the sightOn all the wings of holiday delight),Where stands that monument of ancient power,Named with emphatic dignity, the Tower,Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and small,In starry forms disposed upon the wall:We wonder, as we gazing stand below,That brass and steel should make so fine a show;But, though we praise the exact designer’s skill,Account them implements of mischief still.No works shall find acceptance in that day,When all disguises shall be rent away,That square not truly with the Scripture plan,Nor spring from love to God, or love to man.As he ordains things sordid in their birthTo be resolved into their parent earth;And, though the soul shall seek superior orbs,Whate’er this world produces, it absorbs;So self starts nothing, but what tends apaceHome to the goal, where it began the race.Such as our motive is our aim must be;If this be servile, that can ne’er be free:If self employ us, whatsoe’er is wrought, We glorify that self, not Him we ought;Such virtues had need prove their own reward,The Judge of all men owes them no regard.True Charity, a plant divinely nursed,Fed by the love from which it rose at first,Thrives against hope, and, in the rudest scene,Storms but enliven its unfading green;Exuberant is the shadow it supplies,Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies.To look at Him, who form’d us and redeem’d,So glorious now, though once so disesteem’d;To see a God stretch forth his human hand,To uphold the boundless scenes of his command:To recollect that, in a form like ours,He bruised beneath his feet the infernal powers,Captivity led captive, rose to claimThe wreath he won so dearly in our name;That, throned above all height, he condescendsTo call the few that trust in him his friends;That, in the heaven of heavens, that space he deemsToo scanty for the exertion of his beams,And shines, as if impatient to bestowLife and a kingdom upon worms below;That sight imparts a never-dying flame,Though feeble in degree, in kind the same.Like him the soul, thus kindled from above,Spreads wide her arms of universal love;And, still enlarged as she receives the grace,Includes creation in her close embrace.Behold a Christian!—and without the firesThe Founder of that name alone inspires,Though all accomplishment, all knowledge meet;To make the shining prodigy complete,Whoever boast that name—behold a cheat!Were love, in these the world’s last doting years,As frequent as the want of it appears,The churches warm’d, they would no longer holdSuch frozen figures, stiff as they are cold;Relenting forms would lose their power, or cease;And e’en the dipp’d and sprinkled live in peace:Each heart would quit its prison in the breast,And flow in free communion with the rest.And statesman, skill’d in projects dark and deep,Might burn his useless Machiavel, and sleep:His budget, often fill’d, yet always poor,Might swing at ease behind his study door,No longer prey upon our annual rents,Or scare the nation with its big contents:Disbanded legions freely might depart,And slaying man would cease to be an art.No learned disputants would take the field,Sure not to conquer, and sure not to yield;Both sides deceived, if rightly understood,Pelting each other for the public good.Did Charity prevail, the press would proveA vehicle of virtue, truth, and love;And I might spare myself the pains to shewWhat few can learn, and all suppose they know.Thus have I sought to grace a serious layWith many a wild, indeed, but flowery spray,In hopes to gain, what else I must have lost,The attention pleasure has so much engross’d.But if unhappily deceived I dream,And prove too weak for so divine a theme,Let Charity forgive me a mistake,That zeal, not vanity, has chanced to make,And spare the poet for his subject’s sake.

Adam: A Sacred Drama. Act 1.

To Heaven's bright lyre let Iris be the bow,Adapt the spheres for chords, for notes the stars;Let new-born gales discriminate the bars,Nor let old Time to measure times be slow.Hence to new Music of the eternal LyreAdd richer harmony and praise to praise;For him who now his wondrous might displays,And shows the Universe its awful Sire.O Thou who ere the World or Heaven was made,Didst in thyself, that World, that Heaven enjoy,How does thy bounty all its powers employ;What inexpressive good hast thou displayed!O Thou of sovereign love almighty source,Who knowest to make thy works thy love express,Let pure devotion's fire the soul possess,And give the heart and hand a kindred force.Then shalt thou hear how, when the world began,Thy life-producing voice gave myriads birth,Called forth from nothing all in Heaven and EarthBlessed in thy light Eagles in the Sun.

ACT I.Scene I. -- God The Father. -- Chorus of Angels.

Raise from this dark abyss thy horrid visage,O Lucifer! aggrieved by light so potent,Shrink from the blaze of these refulgent planetsAnd pant beneath the rays of no fierce sun;Read in the sacred volumes of the sky,The mighty wonders of a hand divine.Behold, thou frantic rebel,How easy is the task,To the great Sire of Worlds,To raise his his empyrean seat sublime:Lifting humility Thither whence pride hath fallen.From thence with bitter grief,Inhabitant of fire, and mole of darkness,Let the perverse behold,Despairing his escape and my compassion,His own perdition in another's good,And Heaven now closed to him, to others opened;And sighing from the bottom of his heart,Let him in homage to my power exclaim,Ah, this creative Sire,(Wretch as I am) I see,Hath need of nothing but himself aloneTo re-establish all.

The volume of the stars,The sovereign Author planned,Inscribing it with his eternal hand,And his benignant aimTheir beams in lucid characters proclaim;And man in these delighting,Feels their bright beams inviting,And seems, though prisoned in these mortal bars,Walking on earth to mingle with the stars.

God The Father.

Angels, desert your Heaven! with you to Earth,That Power descends, whom Heaven accompanies;Let each spectator of these works sublimeBehold, with meek devotion,Earth into flesh transformed, and clay to man,Man to a sovereign lord,And souls to seraphim.

The Seraphim Sing.

Now let us cleave the sky with wings of gold,The world be paradise,Since to its fruitful breastNow the great Sovereign of our quire descends;Now let us cleave the sky with wings of gold;Strew yourselves flowers beneath the step divine,Ye rivals of the stars!Summoned from every sphereYe gems of heaven, heaven's radiant wealth appear;Now let us cleave the sky with wings of gold!

God The Father.

Behold, ye springing herbs and new-born flowers,The step that used to press the stars aloneAnd the sun's spacious road,This day begins, along the sylvan scene,To leave its grand impression;To low materials now I stretch my hand,To form a work sublime.

The Angels Sing.

Lament, lament in anguish,Angel to God rebellious!See, on a sudden riseThe creature doomed to fill thy radiant seat!Foolish thy pride took fireContemplating thy birth;But he o'er pride shall triumph,Acknowledging he sprung from humble dust.From hence he shall acquireAs much as thou hast lost;Since he supreme Inhabitant of HeavenReceives the humble, and dethrones the proud.

God The Father.

Adam, arise, since I do thee impartA spirit warm from my benignant breath:Arise, arise, first man,And joyous let the worldEmbrace its living miniature in thee!

Adam. O marvels new, O hallowed, O divine,Eternal object of the angel host:Why do I not possess tongues numerousAs now the stars in heaven?Now then, beforeA thing of earth so mean,See I the great Artificer divine?Mighty Ruler supernal,If 'tis denied this tongueTo match my obligation with my thanks,Behold my heart's affection,And hear it speaking clearer than my tongue,And to thee bending lowerThan this my humble knee.Now, now, O Lord, in ecstasy devout,Let my mind mount, and passing all the clouds,Passing each sphere, even up to heaven ascend,And there behold the stars, a seat for man!Thou Lord, who all the fire of genuine loveConvertest to thyself,Transform me into thee, that I a partEven of thyself, may thus acquire the powerTo offer praises not unworthy thee.

The Angels Sing.

To smile in paradise,Great demigod of earth, direct thy step; There like the tuneful spheres,Circle the murmuring rillsOf limpid water bright;There the melodious birdsRival angelic quires;There lovely flowers profuseAppear as vivid stars;The snow rose is there,A silver moon, the heliotrope a sun:What more can be desired,By earth's new lord in fair corporeal vest,Than in the midst of earth to find a heaven?

Adam, behold I come,Son dear to me, thou sonOf an indulgent sire;Behold the hand that never works in vain;Behold the hand that joined the elements,That added heaven to heavens,That filled the stars with light,Gave lustre to the moon,Prescribed the sun his course,And now supports the world,And forms a solid stage for thy firm step.Now sleeping, Adam from thy opened sideThe substance I will takeThat shall have woman's name, and lovely form.

The Angels Sing.

Immortal works of an immortal Maker!Ye high and blessed seatsOf this delightful world,Ye starry seats of heaven,Trophies divine, productions pre-ordained;O power! O energy!Which out of shadowy horror formed the Sun!

Eve. What heavenly melody pervades my heart,Ere yet the sound my ear! inviting meTo gaze on wonders, what do I behold,What transformations new;Is earth become the heaven?Do I behold his lightWhose splendour dazzles the meridian sun?Am I the creature of that plastic hand, Who formed of nought the angels and the heavens?Thou sovereign Lord! whom lowly I adore,A love so tender penetrates my heart,That while my tongue ventures on utterance,The words with difficultyFind passage from my lips;For in a tide of tears,(That sighs have caused to flow) they seem absorbed.Thou pure celestial loveOf the benignant power,Who pleased to manifest on earth his glory,Now to this world descends,To draw from abject clayThe governor of all created things:Lord of the hallowed and concealed affection.Thou in whom love glows with such fervent flame,Inspirit even my tongueWith suitable reply, that these dear valesAnd sylvan scenes may hearThanks, that to thee I should devote, my Sire,But if my tongue be mute, speak thou, my heart.

God The Father.

Adam, awake! and ceaseTo meditate in rapturous trance profoundThings holy and abstruse,And the deep secrets of the Trinal Lord.

Adam. Where am I? where have I been? what SunOf triple influence that dims the day Now from my eye withdraws, where is he vanished?O hallowed miraclesOf this imperial seat,Of these resplendent suns,Which though divided, formA single ray of light immeasurable,Embellishing all Heaven,And giving grace and lustreTo every winged Seraph;Divine mysterious light,Flowing from sovereign Good,To him alone thou art known,Who mounts to thee an eagle in his faith.What rose of snowy hue and sacred form,In these celestial bowers,Wet with Empyreal dews, have I beheldOpening its bosom to the suns! or ratherOne of these suns making the rose its Heaven;And in a moment's space,(O marvels most sublime,)With deluges of light,And in a lily's form,Rise from that lovely virgin bosom blest.Can suns be lilies then, And lilies children of the maiden rose?

God The Father.

The Heaven's too lofty, and too low the world;Suffice it that in vainMan's humble intellect Attempts to sound the depths of deeds divine:Press in the fond embraces of thy heartThe consort of thy bosom,And let her name be Eve.

I leave you now, my children; rest in peace,Receive my blessing, and so fruitful proveThat for your offspring earth may scarce suffice:Man, be thou lord of all that now the sunWarms or the ocean laves; impose a nameOn every thing that flies, or runs, or swims.Now through the ear descending to your soulReceive the immutable decree; hear, Adam,Let thy companion hear, and in your heartsMade abode of love,Cherish the mighty word!Of fruits whatever from a spreading branchEach copious tree may offer to your hands,Of dainty viands whatsoe'er aboundIn this delightful garden,This paradise of flowers,The gay delight of man,The treasure of the earth,The wonder of the world, the work of God,These, O my son, these thou art free to taste:But of the Tree comprising Good and EvilUnder the pain of dyingTo him who knows not death,Be now the fruit forbidden!I leave ye now, and through my airy road,Departing from the world, return to Heaven.

The Seraphim Sing.

Let every airy cloud on earth descend,And luminous and lightRepose with God upon this glowing sphere!Then let the stars descend,Descend the moon and sun,Forming bright steps to the empyreal world,And each rejoice that the supreme Creator Has deigned to visit what his hand produced.

Adam. O scene of splendour, viewing which I seeThe glories of my God in lovelier light,How through my eyes do you console my heart!See, at a single nod of our great Sire,(Dear partner of my life,)Fire bursting forth with elemental power!The Sea, Heaven, Earth, their properties assume,And air grows air, although there were beforeNor fire, nor heaven, nor air, nor earth, nor sea.Behold the azure sky, in which ofttimes The lovely glittering starShall wake the dawn, attired in heavenly light,The herald of the morn,To spread the boundless lustre of the day;Then shall the radiant sun,To gladden all the world,Diffuse abroad his energy of light;And when his eye is weary of the earth,The pure and silvery moonAnd the minuter starsShall form the pomp of night.Behold where fire o'er every element,Lucid and light, assumes its lofty seat!Behold the simple field of spotless airMade the support of variegated birds,That with their tuneful notesGuide the delightful hours!See the great bosom of the fertile earthWith flowers embellished and with fruits mature!See on her verdant brow she seems to bearHills as her crown, and as her sceptre trees!Behold the ocean's fair cerulean plain,That 'midst its humid sands and vales profound,And 'midst its silent and its scaly tribes,Rolls over buried gold and precious pearl, And crimson coral raising to the sky Its wavy head with herbs and amber crowned!Stupendous all proclaimTheir Maker's power and glory.

Lucifer. Who from my dark abyssCalls me to gaze on this excess of light?What miracles unseenShowest thou to me, O God?Art thou then tired of residence in heaven?Why hast thou formed on earthThis lovely paradise?And wherefore place in itTwo earthly demi-gods of human mould?Say thou vile architect,Forming thy work of dust,What will befall this naked, helpless man,The sole inhabitant of glens and woods?Does he then dream of treading on the stars?Heaven is impoverished, and I, aloneThe cause, enjoy the ruin I produced.Let him unite aboveStar upon star, moon, sun,And let his Godhead toilTo re-adorn and re-illume his Heaven!Since in the end derisionShall prove his works, and all his efforts vain:For Lucifer alone was that full lightWhich scattered radiance o'er the plains of heaven.But these his present fires, are shade and smoke,Base counterfeits of my more potent beams.I reck not what he means to make his heaven,Nor care I what his creature man may be.Too obstinate and firm Is my undaunted thought,In proving that I am implacable'Gainst Heaven, 'gainst Man, the Angels, and their God.

SCENE III. -- Satan, Beelzebub, and Lucifer.

Satan. To light, to light to raise the embattled brows,A symbol of the firm and generous heartThat ardent dwells in the unconquered breast.Must we then suffer such excessive wrong?And shall we not with hands, thus talon-armed,Tear out the stars from their celestial seat;And as our sign of conquest,Down in our dark abyssShall we not force the sun, and moon to blaze,Since we are those, who in dread feats of armsWarring amongst the stars,Made the bright face of Heaven turn pale with fear.To arms! to arms! redoubted Beelzebub!Ere yet 'tis heard around,To our great wrong and memorable shame,That by the race of man (mean child of clay)The stars expect a new sublimity.

Beelzebub. I burn with such fierce flame,Such stormy venom deluges my soul,That with intestine rageMy groans like thunder sound, my looks are lightning,And my extorted tears are fiery showers!'Tis needful therefore from my brow to shakeThe hissing sperents that o'erstrade my visage,To gaze upon these mighty works of Heaven,And the new demi-gods.Silent be he, who thinks(Now that this man is formed,)To imitate his voice and thus exclaim,Distressful Satan, ye unhappy spirits,How wretched is your lot, from being first,Fallen and degenerate, lost as ye are;Heaven was your station once, your seat the stars,And your great Maker God!Now abject wretches, having lost for ever,Eternal morn and each celestial light,Heaven calls you now the denizens of woeInstead of moving in the solar road,You press the plains of everlasting night;And for your golden tresses, And looks angelical,Your locks are snaky, and your glance malign,Your burning lips a murky vapour breathe,And every tongue now teems with blasphemy,And all blaspheming raiseA cloud sulphereous of foam and fireArmed with the eagle's talon, feet of goat,And dragon's wing, your residence in fire,Profoundest Tartarus unblest and dark,The theatre of anguish,That shuts itself against the beams of day,Since that dread angel, born to brook no law,To desolate the skyAnd raise the powers of Hell,Ought to breathe sanguine fire, and on his browDisplay the ensign of sublimest horrow.

Satan. Though armed with talons keen, and eagle beak,Snaky our tresses, and our aspect fierce,Cloven our feet, our frames with horror plumed,And though our deep abodeBe fixed in shadowy scenes of darkest night,Let us be angels still in dignity;As far surpassing others as the LordOf highest power, his low and humble slaves.If far from heaven our pennons we expand,Let us remember stillThat we alone are lords, and they are slaves;And that resigning meaner seats in heaven,We in their stead have raised a royal throneImmense and massy, where the mighty chiefOf all our legions hither lifts his brow,Than the proud mountain that upholds your heaven;And there with heaven still waging endless war,Threatening the stars, our adversaries ever,Bears a dread sceptre kindling into flame,That while he wheels it round, darts forth a blaze More dazzling than the sun's meridian ray.

Lucifer. 'Tis time to show my power, my brave compeers,Magnanimous and mighty Angels endowed with martial potency,I know the grief that gives you living death,Is to see man exalted To stations so sublime,That all created things to him submit;Since ye already doubt,That to those lofty seats of flaming glory,(Our treasure once and pride, but now renounced,)This pair shall one day riseWith all the numerous trainOf their posterity.

Satan. Great Lord of the infernal deep abyss,To thee I bow, and speakThe anguish of my soul,That for this man, grows hourly more severe,Fearing the Incarnation of the Word.

Lucifer. Can it be true, that from so little dust A deity shall rise!That flesh, that deity, that lofty power,That chains us to the deep?To this vile clod of earth,He who himself yet claims to be adored?Shall angels then do homage thus to men?And can then flesh impureGive to angelic nature higher powers?Can it be true, and to devise the modeEscape our intellect, ours who so dearHave bought the boast of wisdom?I yet am He, I am,Who would not suffer that above in heaven,Your lofty nature should submit to outrage,When that insensate wishPossessed the tyrant of the starry throne,That you should prostrate fall,Before the Incarnate Word:I am that Spirit, I, who for your sakeCollecting dauntless courage to the northLed you far distant from the senseless will,Of him who boasts to have created heaven.And ye are those, your ardour speaks you well,And your bold hearts that o'er the host of heavenGave me assurance of proud victory.Arise! let glory's glameBlaze in your breast, nor be it ever heard,That him whom ye disdainTo worship in the sky,Ye stoop to worship in the depth of hell!Such were your oaths to me,By your inestimable worth in arms,Your worth, alas, so greatThat heaven itself deserved not to enjoy it.Oh, 'twere an outrage and a shame too great,Were we not ready to revenge it all;I see already flaming in your looks,The matchless valour of your ardent hearts;Already see your pinions spread in air,To overwhelm the world and highest heaven.That, all creation sunk in the abyss,This mortal may be foundInstantly crushed, and buried in his birth.

Satan. At length pronounce thy orders!Say what thou wilt, and with a hundred tonguesSpeak, speak! that instant in a hundred worksSatan may toil, and Hell strain all her powers.

Lucifer. Behold, to smooth the rough and arduous wayBy which they deem they may ascend to glory,Behold a God assumesA human form in vain!A mode too prompt and easy,To crush the race of mortals,The ancient God affords to new-born man.Nature herself too much inclines, or ratherForces this creature, to support his life,Frequent to feed on various viands; henceSince on delicious daintiesHis bitter fall depends,He may be tempted now to fruit forbidden,And by the paths of death,As he was nothing once, return to nothing.

Beelzebub. Great Angel! greatly thought!

Lucifer. Rather the noble spirit Of higher towering thought prompts me to speak,That God perchance indignant that his handsHave stooped to stain themselves in abject clay,Seeing how different angel is from man,Repenting of his work,Forbad him to support his frail existenceUpon this sweet allurement; hence to sinPrompted by natural motives, though tyrannic,He should himself the earth's destroyer prove,Converting his vile clay to dust again;And plucking up againThe rooted world, thus to the highest heavenOpen a faithful passage,Repenting of his wrong to us of oldIts ornaments sublime!

Satan. Pardon, O pardon, if my humble thoughtAspiring by my tongueToo high, perhaps offend your sovereign ear!Long as this man shall restAlive, and breathe on earth,Exhausted we must bearFierce war, in endless terror of the Word.

Lucifer. Man yet shall rest alive, he yet shall breatheAnd sinning even to death,This new-made race of mortalsShall cover all the earth,And reign o'er all its creatures;His soul shall prove eternal,The image of his God.Yet shall the Incarnate Word, I trust, be foiled.

Lucifer. Let man exist to sin, since he by sinningShall make the weight of sin his heritage,Which shall be in his raceProclaimed original:So that mankind existing but to sin,And sinning still to death,And still to error born,In evil hour the WordWill wear the sinner's form, if rightly deemed The enemy of sin.Now rise, ye Spirits, from the dark abyss,You who would rest assured That man the sinner is now doomed to death.

SCENE IV. -- Melecano, Lurcone, Lucifer, Satan, and Beelzebub.

Melecano. Command us, mighty Lord; what are thy wishes?Wouldst thou extinguish the new-risen sun?Behold what stores I bringOf darkness and of fire!Alas! with fury Melecano burns.

Lucifer. Thou, Melecan, assume the name of Pride;Lurcone, thou of Envy; both united,(Since power combined with powerAcquires new force) to man direct your way;Nor him alone essay, it is my willThat woman also mourn;Contrive that she may murmur at her God,Because in birth not prior to the man;Since every future man is now ordainedTo draw his life from woman, with such thoughtsLet her wax envious, that she cannot soarAbove the man, as high as now below him.Hence, Lurcon, be it thine to make her proud;Let her give law to her Creator God,Wishing o'er man priority of birth.

Melecano. Behold, where Melecan, a dog in fierceness,The savage dog of hell,Darts growling to his prey!He flies, and he returnsAll covered and all drenched with human gore.

Lurcone. I rapid too depart,And on a swifter wingThan through the cloudless airDarts the keen eagle to his earthly prey.Behold, I too return,My beak with carnage filled, and talons full.

Lucifer. Haste, Arfarat and Ruspican, rise all,Rise from the centre to survey the earth!

SCENE V. -- Ruspican, Arfarat, Lucifer, Satan, and Beelzebub.

Ruspican. Soon as I heard the name of Ruspican,With rapid pinions spread, I sought the skies,To bend before the great Tartarean chief,And aggravate the woesOf this new mortal blest with air and light.

Arfarat. Scarce had thy mighty voiceRe-echoed through the deep,When the Tartarean firesFlying I left for this serener sky,Forth from my lips, and heart,Breathing fierce rancour 'gainst the life of man.

Lucifer. Fly, Ruspican, with all your force and fury!Since now I call thee by the name of Anger,Find Eve, and tell her that the fair endowmentOf her free will, deserves not she should liveIn vassalage to man;That she alone in value far exceedsAll that the sun in his bright circle warms;That she from flesh, man from the meaner dustArose to life, in the fair garden sheCreated pure, he in the baser field.

Ruspican. I joy to change the name of RuspicanFor Anger, dark and deadly:Hence now by my tremendous aid, destructiveAnd deadly be this day!Behold I go with all my force and fury;Behold I now transfuseMy anger all into the breast of woman!

Lucifer. Of Avarice I give,O Arfarat, to thee the name and works;Go, see, contend, and conquer!Contrive that wandering Eve,With down-cast eyes, may in the fruitful gardenSearch with solicitude for hidden treasure:Then stimulate her heart,To wish no other Lord,Except herself, of Eden and the world.

Arfarat. See me already plumedWith wings of gems and gold;See with an eye of sapphireI gaze upon the fair.Behold to her I speak,With lips that emulate the ruby's lustre.Receive now as thy own(Thus I accost her) all the world's vast wealth!If she reject my gift Then will I tempt her with a shower of pearls,A fashion yet unknown;Thus will she melt, and thus I hope at lastIn chains of gold to drag her to destruction.

Lucifer. Rise, Guliar, Dulciato, and Maltia!To make the band of enemies complete,That, like a deadly Hydra, Shall dart against this manYour seven crests portentous and terrific.

Lucifer. Maltia, thou shalt take the name of Sloth:Sudden invest thyself with drowsy charmsAnd mischievous repose;Now wait on Eve, in slothfulness absorbed,Let all this pomp of flowers,And all these tuneful birdsBe held by her in scorn:And from her consort flying,Now let her feel no wishes but for death.

Lucifer. Thee, Dulciato, we name Luxury;Haste thee to Eve, and fill her with desiresTo decorate her fragile form with flowers,To bind her tresses with a golden fillet,With various vain devices to allureA new-found paramour;And to her heart suggest,That to exchange her love may prove delightful.

Dulciato. Can Lord so mighty, from his humble slave,Demand no higher task?The way to purchase honour Now will I teach all Hell,By the completion of my glorious triumph.Already Eve beside a crystal fountExults to vanquish the vermilion roseWith cheeks of sweeter bloom,And to exceed the lily By her yet whiter bosom;Now beauteous threads of goldShe thinks her tresses floating in the air;Now amorous and charming,Her radiant eyes she reckons suns of love,Fit to inflame the very coldest heart.

Lucifer. Guliar, be thou called Gluttony: now goReveal to Eve that the forbidden fruitIs manna all within,And that such food in heavenForms the repast of angels and of God.

Guliar. Of all the powerful foesLeagued against man, Guliar is only heWho can induce him to oppose his Maker;Hence rapidly I fly To work the woe of mortals.

Satan. To arms, to arms! to ruin and to bloodYes, now to blood, infernal leeches all!Again, again proclaiming war to Heaven,And let us put to flightEvery audacious foeThat ventures to disturb our ancient peace.

Beelzebub. Now, now, great chief, with feetThat testify thy triumph,I see thee crush the sun,The moon, and all the stars;For where thy radiance shines,O Lucifer! all other beams are blind.

Table Talk

A. You told me, I remember, glory, builtOn selfish principles, is shame and guilt;The deeds that men admire as half divine,Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tearsThe laurel that the very lightning spares;Brings down the warrior’s trophy to the dust,And eats into his bloody sword like rust.B. I grant that, men continuing what they are,Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war,And never meant the rule should be appliedTo him that fights with justice on his side.Let laurels drench’d in pure Parnassian dewsReward his memory, dear to every muse,Who, with a courage of unshaken root,In honour’s field advancing his firm foot,Plants it upon the line that Justice draws,And will prevail or perish in her cause.‘Tis to the virtues of such men man owesHis portion in the good that Heaven bestows.And, when recording History displaysFeats of renown, though wrought in ancient days,Tells of a few stout hearts, that fought and died,Where duty placed them, at their country’s side;The man that is not moved with what he reads,That takes not fire at their heroic deeds,Unworthy of the blessings of the brave,Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.But let eternal infamy pursueThe wretch to nought but his ambition true,Who, for the sake of filling with one blastThe post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste.Think yourself station’d on a towering rock,To see a people scatter’d like a flock,Some royal mastiff panting at their heels,With all the savage thirst a tiger feels;Then view him self-proclaim’d in a gazetteChief monster that has plagued the nations yet.The globe and sceptre in such hands misplaced,Those ensigns of dominion how disgraced!The glass, that bids man mark the fleeting hour,And Death’s own scythe, would better speak his power;Then grace the bony phantom in their steadWith the king’s shoulder-knot and gay cockade;Clothe the twin brethren in each other’s dress,The same their occupation and success.A. ‘Tis your belief the world was made for man;Kings do but reason on the self-same plan:Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn,Who think, or seem to think, man made for them.B. Seldom, alas! the power of logic reignsWith much sufficiency in royal brains;Such reasoning falls like an inverted cone,Wanting its proper base to stand upon.Man made for kings! those optics are but dimThat tell you so—say, rather, they for him.That were indeed a king-ennobling thought,Could they, or would they, reason as they ought.The diadem, with mighty projects lined,To catch renown by ruining mankind,Is worth, with all its gold and glittering store,Just what the toy will sell for, and no more.Oh! bright occasions of dispensing good,How seldom used, how little understood!To pour in Virtue’s lap her just reward;Keep Vice restrain’d behind a double guard;To quell the faction that affronts the throneBy silent magnanimity alone;To nurse with tender care the thriving arts;Watch every beam Philosophy imparts;To give religion her unbridled scope,Nor judge by statute a believer’s hope;With close fidelity and love unfeign’dTo keep the matrimonial bond unstain’d;Covetous only of a virtuous praise;His life a lesson to the land he sways;To touch the sword with conscientious awe,Nor draw it but when duty bids him draw;To sheath it in the peace-restoring closeWith joy beyond what victory bestows—Blest country, where these kingly glories shine!Blest England, if this happiness be thine!A. Guard what you say: the patriotic tribeWill sneer, and charge you with a bribe.—B. A bribeThe worth of his three kingdoms I defy,To lure me to the baseness of a lie;And, of all lies (be that one poet’s boast),The lie that flatters I abhor the most.Those arts be theirs who hate his gentle reign,But he that loves him has no need to feign.A. Your smooth eulogium, to one crown address’d,Seems to imply a censure on the rest.B. Quevedo, as he tells his sober tale,Ask’d, when in hell, to see the royal jail;Approved their method in all other things;But where, good sir, do you confine your kings?There—said his guide—the group is in full view.Indeed!—replied the don—there are but few.His black interpreter the charge disdain’d—Few, fellow?—there are all that ever reign’d.Wit, undistinguishing, is apt to strikeThe guilty and not guilty both alike:I grant the sarcasm is too severe,And we can readily refute it here;While Alfred’s name, the father of his age,And the Sixth Edward’s grace the historic page.A. Kings, then, at last have but the lot of all:By their own conduct they must stand or fall.B. True. While they live, the courtly laureate paysHis quitrent ode, his peppercorn of praise,And many a dunce, whose fingers itch to write,Adds, as he can, his tributary mite:A subject’s faults a subject may proclaim,A monarch’s errors are forbidden game!Thus, free from censure, overawed by fear,And praised for virtues that they scorn to wear,The fleeting forms of majesty engageRespect, while stalking o’er life’s narrow stage:Then leave their crimes for history to scan,And ask, with busy scorn, Was this the man?I pity kings, whom worship waits upon,Obsequious from the cradle to the throne;Before whose infant eyes the flatterer bows,And binds a wreath about their baby brows:Whom education stiffens into state,And death awakens from that dream too late.Oh! if servility with supple knees,Whose trade it is to smile, to crouch, to please;If smooth dissimulation skill’d to graceA devil’s purpose with an angel’s face;If smiling peeresses and simpering peers,Encompassing his throne a few short years;If the gilt carriage and the pamper’d steed,That wants no driving, and disdains the lead;If guards, mechanically form’d in ranks,Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks,Shouldering and standing as if stuck to stone,While condescending majesty looks on—If monarchy consist in such base things,Sighing, I say again, I pity kings!To be suspected, thwarted, and withstood,E’en when he labours for his country’s good;To see a band call’d patriot for no cause,But that they catch at popular applause,Careless of all the anxiety he feels,Hook disappointment on the public wheels;With all their flippant fluency of tongue,Most confident, when palpably most wrong—If this be kingly, then farewell for meAll kingship, and may I be poor and free!To be the Table Talk of clubs up-stairs,To which the unwash’d artificer repairs,To indulge his genius after long fatigue,By diving into cabinet intrigue—(For what kings deem a toil, as well they may,To him is relaxation, and mere play);To win no praise when well-wrought plans prevail,But to be rudely censured when they fail;To doubt the love his favourites may pretend,And in reality to find no friend;If he indulge a cultivated taste,His galleries with the works of art well graced,To hear it call’d extravagance and waste;—If these attendants, and if such as these,Must follow royalty, then welcome ease;However humble and confined the sphere,Happy the state that has not these to fear!A. Thus men, whose thoughts contemplative have dweltOn situations that they never felt,Start up sagacious, cover’d with the dustOf dreaming study and pedantic rust,And prate and preach about what others prove,As if the world and they were hand and glove.Leave kingly backs to cope with kingly cares;They have their weight to carry, subjects theirs;Poets, of all men, ever least regretIncreasing taxes and the nation’s debt.Could you contrive the payment, and rehearseThe mighty plan, oracular, in verse,No bard, howe’er majestic, old or new,Should claim my fix’d attention more than you.B. Not Brindley nor Bridgewater would essayTo turn the course of Helicon that way:Nor would the Nine consent the sacred tideShould purl amidst the traffic of Cheapside,Or tinkle in ‘Change Alley, to amuseThe leathern ears of stockjobbers and Jews.A. Vouchsafe, at least, to pitch the key of rhymeTo themes more pertinent, if less sublime.When ministers and ministerial arts;Patriots, who love good places at their hearts;When admirals, extoll’d for standing still,Or doing nothing with a deal of skill;Generals, who will not conquer when they may,Firm friends to peace, to pleasure, and good pay;When Freedom, wounded almost to despair,Though discontent alone can find out where—When themes like these employ the poet’s tongue,I hear as mute as if a syren sung.Or tell me, if you can, what power maintainsA Briton’s scorn of arbitrary chains?That were a theme might animate the dead,And move the lips of poets cast in lead.B. The cause, though worth the search, may yet eludeConjecture and remark, however shrewd.They take, perhaps, a well-directed aim,Who seek it in his climate and his frame.Liberal in all things else, yet Nature hereWith stern severity deals out the year.Winter invades the spring, and often poursA chilling flood on summer’s drooping flowers;Unwelcome vapours quench autumnal beams,Ungenial blasts attending curl the streams:The peasants urge their harvest, ply the forkWith double toil, and shiver at their work:Thus with a rigour, for his good design’d,She rears her favourite man of all mankind.His form robust, and of elastic tone,Proportion’d well, half muscle and half bone,Supplies with warm activity and forceA mind well lodged, and masculine of course.Hence Liberty, sweet Liberty inspiresAnd keeps alive his fierce but noble fires.Patient of constitutional control,He bears it with meek manliness of soul;But, if authority grow wanton, woeTo him that treads upon his free-born toe!One step beyond the boundary of the laws,Fires him at once in Freedom’s glorious cause.Thus proud Prerogative, not much revered,Is seldom felt, though sometimes seen and heard;And in his cage, like parrot fine and gay,Is kept to strut, look big, and talk away.Born in a climate softer far than ours,Nor form’d like us, with such Herculean powers,The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk,Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk,Is always happy, reign whoever may,And laughs the sense of misery far away:He drinks his simple beverage with a gust;And, feasting on an onion and a crust,We never feel the alacrity and joyWith which he shouts and carols, Vive le Roi!Fill’d with as much true merriment and gleeAs if he heard his king say—Slave, be free.Thus happiness depends, as Nature shews,Less on exterior things than most suppose.Vigilant over all that he has made,Kind Providence attends with gracious aid;Bids equity throughout his works prevail,And weighs the nations in an even scale;He can encourage slavery to a smile,And fill with discontent a British isle.A. Freeman and slave, then, if the case be such,Stand on a level; and you prove too much:If all men indiscriminately shareHis fostering power, and tutelary care,As well be yoked by Despotism’s hand,As dwell at large in Britain’s charter’d land.B. No. Freedom has a thousand charms to shew,That slaves, howe’er contented, never know.The mind attains beneath her happy reignThe growth that Nature meant she should attain;The varied fields of science, ever new,Opening and wider opening on her view,She ventures onward with a prosperous force,While no base fear impedes her in her course:Religion, richest favour of the skies,Stands most reveal’d before the freeman’s eyes;No shades of superstition blot the day,Liberty chases all that gloom away.The soul, emancipated, unoppress’d,Free to prove all things and hold fast the best,Learns much; and to a thousand list’ning mindsCommunicates with joy the good she finds;Courage in arms, and ever prompt to shewHis manly forehead to the fiercest foe;Glorious in war, but for the sake of peace,His spirits rising as his toils increase,Guards well what arts and industry have won,And Freedom claims him for her first-born son.Slaves fight for what were better cast away—The chain that binds them, and a tyrant’s sway;But they that fight for freedom undertakeThe noblest cause mankind can have at stake:Religion, virtue, truth, whate’er we callA blessing—freedom is the pledge of all.O Liberty! the prisoner’s pleasing dream,The poet’s muse, his passion, and his theme;Genius is thine, and thou art Fancy’s nurse;Lost without thee the ennobling powers of verse;Heroic song from thy free touch acquiresIts clearest tone, the rapture it inspires.Place me where Winter breathes his keenest air,And I will sing, if Liberty be there;And I will sing at Liberty’s dear feet,In Afric’s torrid clime, or India’s fiercest heat.A. Sing where you please; in such a cause I grantAn English poet’s privilege to rant;But is not freedom—at least, is not oursToo apt to play the wanton with her powers,Grow freakish, and o’erleaping every mound,Spread anarchy and terror all around?B. Agreed. But would you sell or slay your horseFor bounding and curveting in his course?Or if, when ridden with a careless rein,He break away, and seek the distant plain?No. His high mettle, under good control,Gives him Olympic speed, and shoots him to the goal.Let Discipline employ her wholesome arts;Let magistrates alert perform their parts,Not skulk or put on a prudential mask,As if their duty were a desperate task;Let active laws apply the needful curb,To guard the peace that riot would disturb;And Liberty, preserved from wild excess,Shall raise no feuds for armies to suppress.When Tumult lately burst his prison-door,And set plebeian thousands in a roar;When he usurp’d authority’s just place,And dared to look his master in the face;When the rude rabble’s watchword was—Destroy,And blazing London seem’d a second Troy;Liberty blush’d, and hung her drooping head,Beheld their progress with the deepest dread;Blush’d that effects like these she should produce,Worse than the deeds of galley-slaves broke loose.She loses in such storms her very name,And fierce licentiousness should bear the blame.Incomparable gem! thy worth untold:Cheap, though blood-bought, and thrown away when sold;May no foes ravish thee, and no false friendBetray thee, while professing to defend!Prize it, ye ministers; ye monarchs, spare;Ye patriots, guard it with a miser’s care.A. Patriots, alas! the few that have been found,Where most they flourish, upon English ground,The country’s need have scantily supplied,And the last left the scene when Chatham died.B. Not so—the virtue still adorns our age,Though the chief actor died upon the stage.In him Demosthenes was heard again;Liberty taught him her Athenian strain;She clothed him with authority and awe,Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law.His speech, his form, his action, full of grace,And all his country beaming in his face,He stood, as some inimitable handWould strive to make a Paul or Tully stand.No sycophant or slave, that dared opposeHer sacred cause, but trembled when he rose;And every venal stickler for the yokeFelt himself crush’d at the first word he spoke.Such men are raised to station and command,When Providence means mercy to a land.He speaks, and they appear; to him they oweSkill to direct, and strength to strike the blow;To manage with address, to seize with powerThe crisis of a dark decisive hour.So Gideon earn’d a victory not his own;Subserviency his praise, and that alone.Poor England! thou art a devoted deer,Beset with every ill but that of fear.The nations hunt; all mark thee for a prey;They swarm around thee, and thou stand’st at bay:Undaunted still, though wearied and perplex’d,Once Chatham saved thee; but who saves thee next?Alas! the tide of pleasure sweeps alongAll that should be the boast of British song.‘Tis not the wreath that once adorn’d thy brow,The prize of happier times, will serve thee now.Our ancestry, a gallant Christian race,Patterns of every virtue, every grace,Confess’d a God; they kneel’d before they fought,And praised him in the victories he wrought.Now from the dust of ancient days bring forthTheir sober zeal, integrity, and worth;Courage, ungraced by these, affronts the skies, Is but the fire without the sacrifice.The stream that feeds the wellspring of the heartNot more invigorates life’s noblest part,Than virtue quickens with a warmth divineThe powers that sin has brought to a decline.A. The inestimable estimate of BrownRose like a paper-kite, and charm’d the town;But measures, plann’d and executed well,Shifted the wind that raised it, and it fell.He trod the very selfsame ground you tread,And victory refuted all he said.B. And yet his judgment was not framed amiss;Its error, if it err’d, was merely this—He thought the dying hour already come,And a complete recovery struck him dumb.But that effeminacy, folly, lust,Enervate and enfeeble, and needs must;And that a nation shamefully debasedWill be despised and trampled on at last,Unless sweet penitence her powers renew,Is truth, if history itself be true.There is a time, and justice marks the date,For long forbearing clemency to wait;That hour elapsed, the incurable revoltIs punish’d, and down comes the thunderbolt.If Mercy then put by the threatening blow,Must she perform the same kind office now?May she! and if offended Heaven be stillAccessible, and prayer prevail, she will.‘Tis not, however, insolence and noise,The tempest of tumultuary joys,Nor is it yet despondence and dismayWill win her visits or engage her stay;Prayer only, and the penitential tear,Can call her smiling down, and fix her here.But when a country (one that I could name)In prostitution sinks the sense of shame;When infamous venality, grown bold,Writes on his bosom, To be let or sold;When perjury, that Heaven-defying vice,Sells oaths by tale, and at the lowest price,Stamps God’s own name upon a lie just made,To turn a penny in the way of trade;When avarice starves (and never hides his face)Two or three millions of the human race,And not a tongue inquires how, where, or when,Though conscience will have twinges now and thenWhen profanation of the sacred causeIn all its parts, times, ministry, and laws,Bespeaks a land, once Christian, fallen and lost,In all that wars against that title most;What follows next let cities of great name,And regions long since desolate proclaim.Nineveh, Babylon, and ancient Rome,Speak to the present times and times to come;They cry aloud in every careless ear,Stop, while ye may; suspend your mad career;O learn, from our example and our fate,Learn wisdom and repentance ere too late!Not only Vice disposes and preparesThe mind that slumbers sweetly in her snares,To stoop to tyranny’s usurp’d command,And bend her polish’d neck beneath his hand(A dire effect by one of Nature’s lawsUnchangeably connected with its cause);But Providence himself will intervene,To throw his dark displeasure o’er the scene.All are his instruments; each form of war,What burns at home, or threatens from afar,Nature in arms, her elements at strife,The storms that overset the joys of life,Are but his rods to scourge a guilty land,And waste it at the bidding of his hand.He gives the word, and mutiny soon roarsIn all her gates, and shakes her distant shores;The standards of all nations are unfurl’d;She has one foe, and that one foe the world.And if he doom that people with a frown,And mark them with a seal of wrath press’d down,Obduracy takes place; callous and tough,The reprobated race grows judgment-proof:Earth shakes beneath them, and Heaven roars above,But nothing scares them from the course they love.To the lascivious pipe and wanton song,That charm down fear, they frolic it along,With mad rapidity and unconcern,Down to the gulf from which is no return.They trust in navies, and their navies fail—God’s curse can cast away ten thousand sail!They trust in armies, and their courage dies;In wisdom, wealth, in fortune, and in lies;But all they trust in withers, as it must,When He commands in whom they place no trust.Vengeance at last pours down upon their coast A long despised, but now victorious, host;Tyranny sends the chain that must abridgeThe noble sweep of all their privilege;Gives liberty the last, the mortal, shock;Slips the slave’s collar on, and snaps the lock.A. Such lofty strains embellish what you teach,Mean you to prophesy, or but to preach?B. I know the mind that feels indeed the fireThe Muse imparts, and can command the lyre,Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal,Whate’er the theme, that others never feel.If human woes her soft attention claim,A tender sympathy pervades the frame,She pours a sensibility divineAlong the nerve of every feeling line.But if a deed not tamely to be borneFire indignation and a sense of scorn,The strings are swept with such a power, so loud,The storm of music shakes the astonish’d crowd.So, when remote futurity is broughtBefore the keen inquiry of her thought,A terrible sagacity informsThe poet’s heart; he looks to distant storms;He hears the thunder ere the tempest lowers!And, arm’d with strength surpassing human powers,Seizes events as yet unknown to man,And darts his soul into the dawning planHence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful nameOf prophet and of poet was the same;Hence British poets too the priesthood shared,And every hallow’d druid was a bard.But no prophetic fires to me belong;I play with syllables, and sport in song.A. At Westminster, where little poets striveTo set a distich upon six and five,Where Discipline helps opening buds of senseAnd makes his pupils proud with silver pence,I was a poet too; but modern taste Is so refined, and delicate, and chaste,That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms,Without a creamy smoothness has no charms.Thus all success depending on an ear,And thinking I might purchase it too dear,If sentiment were sacrificed to sound,And truth cut short to make a period round,I judged a man of sense could scarce do worseThan caper in the morris-dance of verse.B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit,And some wits flag through fear of losing it.Give me the line that ploughs its stately course,Like a proud swan, conquering the stream by force;That, like some cottage beauty, strikes the heart,Quite unindebted to the tricks of art.When labour and when dulness, club in hand,Like the two figures at St. Dunstan’s stand,Beating alternately, in measured time,The clockwork tintinnabulum of rhyme,Exact and regular the sounds will be;But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me.From him who rears a poem lank and long,To him who strains his all into a song;Perhaps some bonny Caledonian air,All birks and braes, though he was never there;Or, having whelp’d a prologue with great pains,Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains;A prologue interdash’d with many a stroke—An art contrived to advertise a joke,So that the jest is clearly to be seen,Not in the words—but in the gap between;Manner is all in all, whate’er is writ,The substitute for genius, sense, and wit.To dally much with subject mean and lowProves that the mind is weak, or makes it so.Neglected talents rust into decay,And every effort ends in pushpin play.The man that means success should soar aboveA soldier’s feather, or a lady’s glove;Else, summoning the muse to such a theme,The fruit of all her labour is whipp’d cream.As if an eagle flew aloft, and then—Stoop’d from its highest pitch to pounce a wren.As if the poet, purposing to wed,Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread.Ages elapsed ere Homer’s lamp appear’d,And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard;To carry nature lengths unknown before,To give a Milton birth, ask’d ages more.Thus genius rose and set at order’d times,And shot a day-spring into distant climes,Ennobling every region that he chose;He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose;And, tedious years of Gothic darkness pass’d, Emerged all splendour in our isle at last.Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main,Then shew far off their shining plumes again.A. Is genius only found in epic lays?Prove this, and forfeit all pretence to praise.Make their heroic powers your own at once,Or candidly confess yourself a dunce.B. These were the chief; each interval of nightWas graced with many an undulating lightIn less illustrious bards his beauty shoneA meteor, or a star; in these, the sun.The nightingale may claim the topmost bough,While the poor grasshopper must chirp below.Like him unnoticed, I, and such as I,Spread little wings, and rather skip than fly;Perch’d on the meagre produce of the land,An ell or two of prospect we command;But never peep beyond the thorny bound,Or oaken fence, that hems the paddock round.In Eden, ere yet innocence of heartHad faded, poetry was not an art;Language, above all teaching, or if taught,Only by gratitude and glowing thought,Elegant as simplicity, and warm As ecstacy, unmanacled by form,Not prompted, as in our degenerate days,By low ambition and the thirst of praise,Was natural as is the flowing stream,And yet magnificent—a God the theme!That theme on earth exhausted, though above‘Tis found as everlasting as his love,Man lavish’d all his thoughts on human things—The feats of heroes and the wrath of kings;But still, while virtue kindled his delight,The song was moral, and so far was right.‘Twas thus till luxury seduced the mindTo joys less innocent, as less refined;Then Genius danced a bacchanal; he crown’dThe brimming goblet, seized the thyrsus, boundHis brows with ivy, rush’d into the fieldOf wild imagination, and there reel’d,The victim of his own lascivious fires,And, dizzy with delight, profaned the sacred wires:Anacreon, Horace, play’d in Greece and RomeThis bedlam part; and others nearer home.When Cromwell fought for power, and while he reign’dThe proud protector of the power he gain’d,Religion, harsh, intolerant, austere,Parent of manners like herself severe,Drew a rough copy of the Christian face,Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace;The dark and sullen humour of the timeJudged every effort of the muse a crime;Verse, in the finest mould of fancy cast,Was lumber in an age so void of tasteBut when the second Charles assumed the sway,And arts revived beneath a softer day,Then, like a bow long forced into a curve,The mind, released from too constrain’d a nerve,Flew to its first position with a spring,That made the vaulted roofs of pleasure ring.His court, the dissolute and hateful schoolOf wantonness, where vice was taught by rule,Swarm’d with a scribbling herd, as deep inlaidWith brutal lust as ever Circe made.From these a long succession, in the rageOf rank obscenity, debauch’d their age:Nor ceased till, ever anxious to redressThe abuses of her sacred charge, the press,The Muse instructed a well-nurtured trainOf abler votaries to cleanse the stain,And claim the palm for purity of song,That lewdness had usurp’d and worn so long.Then decent pleasantry and sterling sense,That neither gave nor would endure offence,Whipp’d out of sight, with satire just and keen,The puppy pack that had defiled the scene.In front of these came Addison. In himHumour in holiday and sightly trim,Sublimity and Attic taste combined,To polish, furnish, and delight the mind.Then Pope, as harmony itself exact,In verse well-disciplined, complete, compact, Gave virtue and morality a grace,That, quite eclipsing pleasure’s painted face,Levied a tax of wonder and applause,E’en on the fools that trampled on their laws.But he (his musical finesse was such,So nice his ear, so delicate his touch)Made poetry a mere mechanic art;And every warbler has his tune by heart.Nature imparting her satiric gift,Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift,With droll sobriety they raised a smileAt folly’s cost, themselves unmoved the while.That constellation set, the world in vainMust hope to look upon their like again.A. Are we then left?—B. Not wholly in the dark;Wit now and then, struck smartly, shews a spark,Sufficient to redeem the modern raceFrom total night and absolute disgrace.While servile trick and imitative knackConfine the million in the beaten track,Perhaps some courser, who disdains the road,Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad.Contemporaries all surpass’d, see one;Short his career indeed, but ably run;Churchill, himself unconscious of his powers,In penury consumed his idle hours;And, like a scatter’d seed at random sown,Was left to spring by vigour of his own.Lifted at length, by dignity of thoughtAnd dint of genius, to an affluent lot,He laid his head in luxury’s soft lap,And took, too often, there his easy nap.If brighter beams than all he threw not forth,‘Twas negligence in him, not want of worth.Surly and slovenly, and bold and coarse,Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force,Spendthrift alike of money and of wit,Always at speed, and never drawing bit,He struck the lyre in such a careless mood,And so disdain’d the rules he understood,The laurel seem’d to wait on his command;He snatch’d it rudely from the muses’ hand.Nature, exerting an unwearied power,Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower;Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leadsThe dancing Naiads through the dewy meads;She fills profuse ten thousand little throatsWith music, modulating all their notes;And charms the woodland scenes and wilds unknown,With artless airs and concerts of her own;But seldom (as if fearful of expense)Vouchsafes to man a poet’s just pretence—Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought,Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought;Fancy, that from the bow that spans the skyBrings colours, dipp’d in heaven, that never die;A soul exalted above earth, a mindSkill’d in the characters that form mankind;And, as the sun, in rising beauty dress’d,Looks to the westward from the dappled east,And marks, whatever clouds may interpose,Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close;An eye like his to catch the distant goal;Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll,Like his to shed illuminating raysOn every scene and subject it surveys;Thus graced, the man asserts a poet’s name,And the world cheerfully admits the claim.Pity Religion has so seldom foundA skilful guide into poetic ground!The flowers would spring where’er she deign’d to stray,And every muse attend her in her way.Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend,And many a compliment politely penn’d;But, unattired in that becoming vestReligion weaves for her, and half undress’d,Stands in the desert shivering and forlorn,A wintry figure, like a wither’d thorn.The shelves are full, all other themes are sped;Hackney’d and worn to the last flimsy thread,Satire has long since done his best; and curstAnd loathsome ribaldry has done his worst;Fancy has sported all her powers awayIn tales, in trifles, and in children’s play;And ‘tis the sad complaint, and almost true,Whate’er we write, we bring forth nothing new.‘Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire,Touch’d with a coal from heaven, assume the lyre.And tell the world, still kindling as he sung,With more than mortal music on his tongue,That He, who died below, and reigns above,Inspires the song, and that his name is Love.For, after all, if merely to beguile,By flowing numbers and a flowery style,The tedium that the lazy rich endure,Which now and then sweet poetry may cure;Or, if to see the name of idol self,Stamp’d on the well-bound quarto, grace the shelf,To float a bubble on the breath of fame,Prompt his endeavour and engage his aim,Debased to servile purposes of pride,How are the powers of genius misapplied!The gift, whose office is the Giver’s praise,To trace him in his word, his works, his ways!Then spread the rich discovery, and inviteMankind to share in the divine delight:Distorted from its use and just design,To make the pitiful possessor shine,To purchase at the fool-frequented fairOf vanity a wreath for self to wear,Is profanation of the basest kind—Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind.A. Hail, Sternhold, then! and, Hopkins, hail!—B. Amen.If flattery, folly, lust, employ the pen;If acrimony, slander, and abuse,Give it a charge to blacken and traduce;Though Butler’s wit, Pope’s numbers, Prior’s ease,With all that fancy can invent to please,Adorn the polish’d periods as they fall,One madrigal of theirs is worth them all.A. ‘Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe,To dash the pen through all that you proscribe.B. No matter—we could shift when they were not;And should, no doubt, if they were all forgot.

Expostulation

Why weeps the muse for England? What appearsIn England's case to move the muse to tears?From side to side of her delightful isleIs she not clothed with a perpetual smile?Can Nature add a charm, or Art conferA new-found luxury, not seen in her?Where under heaven is pleasure more pursued Or where does cold reflection less intrude?Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn,Pour'd out from Plenty's overflowing horn;Ambrosial gardens, in which art suppliesThe fervor and the force of Indian skies:Her peaceful shores, where busy Commerce waitsTo pour his golden tide through all her gates;Whom fiery suns, that scorch the russet spiceOf eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with iceForbid in vain to push his daring wayTo darker climes, or climes of brighter day;Whom the winds waft where'er the billows rollFrom the World's girdle to the frozen pole;The chariots bounding in her wheel-worn streets, Her vaults below, where every vintage meets;Her theatres, her revels, and her sports;The scenes to which not youth alone resorts,But age, in spite of weakness and of pain,Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again;All speak her happy; let the muse look roundFrom East to West, no sorrow can be found;Or only what, in cottages confined,Sighs unregarded to the passing wind.Then wherefore weep for England? What appearsIn England's case to move the muse to tears?The prophet wept for Israel; wish'd his eyesWere fountains fed with infinite supplies;For Israel dealt in robbery and wrong;There were the scorner's and the slanderer's tongue;Oaths, used as playthings or convenient tools,As interest biass'd knaves, or fashion fools;Adultery, neighing at his neighbor's door;Oppression laboring hard to grind the poor;The partial balance and deceitful weight;The treacherous smile, a mask for secret hate;Hypocrisy, formality in prayer,And the dull service of the lip were there.Her women, insolent and self-caress'd, By Vanity's unwearied finger dress'd,Forgot the blush that virgin fears impartTo modest cheeks, and borrow'd one from art;Were just trifles, without worth or use,As silly pride and idleness produce;Curl'd, scented, furbelow'd, and flounced around, With feet too delicate to touch the ground,They stretch'd the neck, and roll'd the wanton eye,And sigh'd for every fool that flutter'd by.He saw his people slaves to every lust,Lewd, avaricious, arrogant, unjust;He heard the wheels of an avenging GodGroan heavily along the distant road;Saw Babylon set wide her two-leaved brassTo let the military deluge pass;Jerusalem a prey, her glory soil'd, Her princes captive, and her treasures spoil'd;Wept till all Israel heard his bitter cry,Stamp'd with his foot, and smote upon his thigh;But wept, and stamp'd, and smote his thigh in vain,Pleasure is deaf when told of future pain,And sounds prophetic are too rough to suit Ears long accustom'd to the pleasing lute:They scorn'd his inspiration and his theme,Pronounc'd him frantic, and his fears a dream;With self-indulgence wing'd the fleeting hours,Till the foe found them, and down fell the towers.Long time Assyria bound them in her chain,Till penitence had purged the public stain,And Cyrus with relenting pity moved,Return'd them happy to the land they loved;There, proof against prosperity, awhileThey stood the test of her ensnaring smile,And had the grace in scenes of peace to showThe virtue they had learn'd in scenes of woe.But man is frail, and can but ill sustainA long immunity from grief and pain;And, after all the joys that Plenty leads,With tiptoe step Vice silently succeeds.When he that ruled them with a shepherd's rod,In form a man, in dignity a God,Came, not expected in that humble guise,To sift and search them with unerring eyes,He found, conceal'd beneath a fair outside,The filth of rottenness and worm of pride;Their piety a system of deceit,Scripture employ'd to sanctify the cheat;The Pharisee the dupe of his own art,Self-idolized, and yet a knave at heart.When nations are to perish in their sins,'Tis in the Church the leprosy begins:The priest whose office is, with zeal sincere,To watch the fountain, and preserve it clear,Carelessly nods and sleeps upon the brink,While other poison what the flock must drink:Or, waking at the call of lust alone,Infuses lies and errors of his own:His unsuspecting sheep believe it pure,And, tainted by the very means of cure,Catch from each other a contagious spot,The foul forerunner of a general rot.Then truth is hush'd, that Heresy may preach;And all is trash that reason cannot reach;Then God's own image on the soul impress'dBecomes a mockery, and a standing jest;And faith the root whence only can ariseThe graces of a life that wins the skies,Loses at once all value and esteem, Pronounced by graybeards a pernicious dream:Then Ceremony leads her bigots forth,Prepared to fight for shadows of no worth;While truths, on which eternal things depend,Find not, or hardly find, a single friend:As soldiers watch the signal of command,They learn to bow, to kneel, to sit, to stand;Happy to fill religion's vacant place;With hollow form, and gesture, and grimace.Such, when the Teacher of his church was there,People and priest, the sons of Israel were;Stiff in the letter, lax in the designAnd import of their oracles divine;Their learning legendary, false, absurd,And yet exalted above God's own word;They drew a curse from an intended good,Puff'd up with gifts they never understood.He judg'd them with as terrible a frown,As if not love, but wrath, had brought him down.Yet he was gentle as soft summer airs,Had grace for others' sins, but none for theirs;Through all he spoke a noble plainness ran--Rhetoric is artifice, the work of man;And tricks and turns that fancy may devise,Are far too mean for Him that rules the skies.The astonish'd vulgar trembled while he toreThe mask from faces never seen before;He stripp'd the impostors in the noonday sun,Show'd that they follow'd all they seem'd to shun;Their prayers made public, their excesses kept As private as the chambers where they slept;The temple and its holy rites profaned By mummeries He that dwelt in it disdain'd; Uplifted hands, that at convenient timesCould act extortion and the worst of crimes,Wash'd with a neatness scrupulously nice,And free from every taint but that of vice.Judgement, however tardy, mends her paceWhen obstinacy once has conquered grace.They saw distemper heal'd, and life restor'd,In answer to the fiat of his word;Confessed the wonder, and with daring tongueBlasphemed the authority from which it sprung.They knew, by sure prognostics seen on high,The future tone and temper of the sky;But, grave dissemblers! could not understandThat sin let loose speaks punishment at hand.Ask now of history's authentic page,And call up evidence from every age;Display with busy and laborious handThe blessings of the most indebted land;What nation will you find whose annals proveSo rich an interest in Almighty love?Where dwell they now, where dwelt in ancient dayA people planted, water'd, blest as they?Let Egypt's plagues and Canaan's woes proclaimThe favors pour'd upon the Jewish name;Their freedom purchased for them at the costOf all their hard oppressors valued most:Their title to a country not their ownMade sure by prodigies till then unknown;For them the states they left made waste and void;For them the states to which they went destroy'd;A cloud to measure out their march by day,By night a fire to cheer the gloomy way;That moving signal summoning, when best,Their host to move, and, when it stay'd, to rest.For them the rocks dissolved into a flood,The dews condensed into angelic food,Their very garments sacred, old yet new,And Time forbid to touch them as he flew;Streams, swell'd above the bank, enjoin'd to standWhile they pass'd through to their appointed land;Their leader arm'd with meekness, zeal, and love,And graced with clear credentials from above;Themselves secured beneath the Almighty wing;Their God their captain, lawgiver, and king;Crown'd with a thousand victories, and at lastLords of the conquer'd soil, there rooted fast,In peace possessing what they won by war,Their name far publish'd, and reverend as far;Where will you find a race like theirs, endow'dWith all that man e'er wish'd, or Heaven bestow'd?They, and they only, amongst all mankind,Received the transcript of the Eternal Mind:Were trusted with his own engraven laws,And constituted guardians of his cause;Theirs were the prophets, theirs the priestly call,And theirs by birth the Saviour of us all.In vain the nations that had seen them riseWith fierce and envious, yet admiring eyes,Had sought to crush them, guarded as they wereBy power divine and skill that could not err.Had they maintain'd allegiance firm and sure,And kept the faith immaculate and pure,Then the proud eagles of all-conquering RomeHad found one city not to be o'ercome;And the twelve standards of the tribes unfurl'dHad bid defiance to the warring world.But grace abused brings forth the foulest deeds,As richest soil the most luxuriant weeds.Cured of the golden calves, their fathers' sin, They set up self, that idol god within;View'd a Deliverer with disdain and hate,Who left them still a tributary state;Seized fast his hand, held out to set them freeFrom a worse yoke, and nail'd it to the tree:There was the consummation and the crown,The flower of Israel's infamy full blown;Thence date their sad declension, and their fall,Their woes, not yet repeal'd, thence date them all.Thus fell the best instructed in her day,And the most favor'd land, look where we may.Philosophy indeed on Grecian eyesHad pour'd the day, and clear'd the Roman skiesIn other climes perhaps creative art,With power surpassing theirs, perform'd her part;Might give more life to marble, or might fillThe glowing tablets with a juster skill,With all the embroidery of poetic dreams;'Twas theirs alone to dive into the planThat truth and mercy had reveal'd to man;And, while the world beside, that plan unknownDeified useless wood or senseless stone,They breathed in faith their well-directed prayersAnd the true God, the God of truth, was theirs. Their glory faded, and their race dispersed,The last of nations now, though once the first,They warn and teach the proudest, would they learn--Keep wisdom, or meet vengeance in your turn:If we escaped not, if Heaven spared not us, Peel'd, scatter'd and exterminated thus;If vice received her retribution due, When we were visited, what hope for you?When God arises with an awful frown,To punish lust, or pluck presumption down,When gifts perverted, or not duly prized,Pleasure o'ervalued, and his grace despised,Provoke the vengeance of his righteous hand,To pour down wrath upon a thankless landHe will be found impartially severe,Too just to wink, or speak the guilty clear.Oh Israel, of all nations most undone!Thy diadem displaced, thy sceptre gone;Thy temple, once thy glory, fallen and rased,And thou a worshipper e'en where thou mayst:Thy services, once holy without spot,Mere shadows now, their ancient pomp forgotThy Levites, once a consecrated host,No longer Levites, and their lineage lost,And thou thyself o'er every country sown,Will none on earth that thou canst call thine own;Cry aloud, thou that sittest in the dust, Cry to the proud, the cruel, and unjust; Knock at the gates of nations, rouse their fears;Say wrath is coming, and the storm appears;But raise the shrillest cry in British ears.What ails thee, restless as the waves that roarAnd fling their foam against thy chalky shore?Mistress, at least while Providence shall please,And trident-bearing queen of the wide seas--Why, having kept good faith, and often shownFriendship and truth to others, find'st thou noneThou that hast set the persecuted free,None interposes now to succor thee.Countries indebted to thy power, that shineWith light derived from thee, would smother thineThy very children watch for thy disgrace,A lawless brood, and curse thee to thy face.Thy rulers load thy credit year by year,With sums Peruvian mines could never clear;As if, like arches built with skilful handThe more 'twere press'd, the firmer it would stand.The cry in all thy ships is still the same,Speed us away to battle and to fame.Thy mariners explore the wild expanse,Impatient to descry the flags of France:But though they fight, as thine have ever foughtReturn ashamed without the wreaths they soughtThy senate is a scene of civil jar,Chaos of contrarieties at war;Where sharp and solid, phlegmatic and lightDiscordant atoms meet, ferment and fight:Where obstinacy takes his sturdy stand,In disconcert what policy has plann'd; Where policy is busied all night longIn settling right what faction has set wrong;Where flails of oratory thresh the floor,That yields them chaff and dust, and nothing more.Thy rack'd inhabitants repine, complain.Tax'd till the brow of labor sweats in vain;War lays a burden on the reeling state,And peace does nothing to relieve the weight;Successive loads succeeding broils impose,And sighing millions prophecy the close.In adverse Providence, when ponder'd well,So dimly writ, or difficult to spell,Thou canst not read with readiness and easeProvidence adverse in events like these?Know then that heavenly wisdom on this ballCreates, gives birth to, guides, consummates all;That, while laborious and quick-thoughted manSnuffs up the praise of what he seems to plan,He first conceives, then perfects his design,As a mere instrument in hands divine:Blind to the working of that secret power,That balances the wings of every hour,The busy trifler dreams himself alone,Frames many a purpose, and God works his own.States thrive or wither, as moons wax and wane,E'en as his will and his decrees ordain;While honor, virtue, piety bear sway,They flourish; and, as these decline, decay:In just resentment of his injured laws,He pours contempt on them and on their cause;Strikes the rough thread of error right athwartThe web of every scheme they have at heart;Bids rottenness invade and bring to dustThe pillars of support in which they trust,Ad do his errand of disgrace and shameOn the chief strength and glory of the frame.None ever yet impeded what he wrought,None bars him out from his most secret thought;Darkness itself before his eye is light,And hell's close mischief naked in his sight.Stand now and judge thyself -- Hast thou incurr'dHis anger who can waste thee with a word,Who poises and proportions sea and land,Weighing them in the hollow of his hand,Adn in whose awful sight all nations seemAs grasshoppers, as dust, a drop, a dream?Hast thou (a sacrilege his soul abhors)Claim'd all the glory of thy prosperous wars?Proud of thy fleets and armies, stolen the gemOf his just praise to lavish it on them?Hast thou not learn'd, what thou art often told, A truth still sacred, and believed of old,That no success attends on spears and swordsUnblest, and that the battle is the Lord's? That courage is his creature; and dismayGhastly in feature, and his stammering tongue With doleful rumor and sad presage hung,To quell the valor of the stoutest heart,And teach the combatant a woman's part?That he bids thousands fly when none pursue,Saves as he will by many or by few,And claims forever, as his royal right,The event and sure design of the fight?Hast thou, though suckled at fair freedom's breast,Exported slavery to the conquer'd East?Pull'd down the tyrants India served with dread,And raised thyself, a greater, in their stead?Gone thither, arm'd and hungry, return'd full,Fed from the richest veins of the Mogul,A despot big with power, obtain'd by wealth, And that obtain'd rapine and by stealth?With Asiatic vices stored thy mind,But left their virtues and thine own behind?And, having truck'd thy soul, brought home the fee, To tempt the poor to sell himself to thee?Hast thou by statute shoved from its design,The Saviour's feast, his own blest bread and wine,And made the symbols of atoning graceAn office-key, a picklock to a place,That infidels may prove their title good By an oath dipp'd in sacramental blood?A blot that will be still a blot, in spiteOf all that grave apologists may write;And though a bishop toil to cleanse the stain,He wipes and scours the silver cup in vain.And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence,Till perjuries are common as bad pence,While thousands, careless of the damning sin,Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er look within?Hast thou admitted with a blind, fond trust,The lie that burned thy fathers' bones to dust,That first adjudged them heretics, then sentTheir souls to heaven, and cursed them as they went?The lie that Scripture strips of its disguise,And execrates above all other lies,The lie that claps a lock on mercy's plan,And gives the key to yon infirm old man,Who once ensconced in apostolic chairIs deified, and sits omniscient there;The lie that knows no kindred, owns no friendBut him that makes its progress his chief end,That having spilt much blood, makes that a boast,And canonises him that sheds the most?Away with charity that soothes a lie,And thrusts the truth with scorn and danger by!Shame on the candour and the gracious smileBestowed on them that light the martyr's pile, While insolent disdain in frowns expressed Attends the tenets that endured that test!Grant them the rights of men, and while they ceaseTo vex the peace of others, grant them peace;But trusting bigots whose false zeal has madeTreachery their duty, thou art self-betrayed.Hast thou, when Heaven has clothed thee with disgrace,And, long-provoked, repaid thee to thy face,(For thou hast known eclipses, and enduredDimness and anguish, all thy beams obscured,When sin has shed dishonor on thy brow;And never of a sabler hue than now,) Hast thou, with heart perverse and conscience sear'd,Despising all rebuke, still persevered,And having chosen evil, scorn'd the voiceThat cried, Repent! -- and gloried in thy choice?Thy fastings, when calamity at lastSuggests the expedient of a yearly fast,What mean they? Canst thou dream there is a powerIn lighter diet at a later hour,To charm to sleep the threatening of the skies, And hide past folly from all-seeing eyes?The fast that wins deliverance, and suspendsThe stroke that a vindictive God intendsIs to renounce hypocrisy; to drawThy life wupon the pattern of the law;To war with pleasure, idolized before;To vanquish lust, and wear its yoke no more.All fasting else, whate'er be the pretence,Is wooing mercy by renew'd offence.Hast thou within thee sin, that in old timeBrought fire from heaven, the sex-abusing crime,Whose horrid penetration stamps disgrace,Baboons are free from, upon human race? Think on the fruitful and well-water'd spotThat fed the flocks and herds of wealthy Lot,Where Paradise seem'd still vouchsafed on earth,Burning and scorch'd into perpetual dearthOr, in his words who damn'd the base desire, Suffering the vengeance of eternal fire:Then nature, injured, scandalized, defiled,Unveil'd her blushing cheek, looked on, and smiled;Beheld with joy the lovely scene defac'd, And praised the wrath that laid her beauties waste.Far be the thought from any verse of mine,And farther still the form'd and fix'd design,To thrust the charge of deeds that I detestAgainst an innocent, unconscious breast;The man that dares traduce, because he canWith safety to himself, is not a man:An individual is a sacred mark,Not to be pierced in play, or in the dark; But public censure speaks a public foe,Unless a zeal for virtue guide the blow.The priestly brotherhood, devout, sincere,From mean self-interest, and ambition clear,Their hope in heaven, servility their scorn,Prompt to persuade, expostulate, and warn,Their wisdom pure, and given them from above,Their usefulness ensured by zeal and love.As meek as the man Moses, and withalAs bold as in Agrippa's presence Paul,Should fly the world's contaminating touch,Holy and unpolluted :-- are thine such? Except a few with Eli's spirit blest,Hophni and Phineas may describe the rest.Where shall a teacher look, in days like these,For ears and hearts that he can hope to please? Look to the poor, the simple and the plainWill hear perhaps thy salutary strain: Humility is gentle, apt to learn,Speak but the word, will listen and return.Alas, not so! the poorest of the flockAre proud, and set their faces as a rock; Denied that earthly opulence they choose,God's better gift they scoff at and refuse.The rich, the produce of a nobler stem, Are more intelligent, at least -- try them.Oh vain inquiry! they without remorseAre altogether gone a devious course;Where beckoning, pleasure leads them, wildly stray;Have burst the bands, and cast the yoke away.Now borne upon the wings of truth sublime,Review thy dim original and prime. This island, spot of unreclaim'd rude earth,The cradle that received thee at thy birth,Was rock'd by many a rough Norwegian blast,And Danish howlings scared thee as they pass'd; For thou wast born amid the din of arms, And suck'd a breast that panted with alarmsWhile yet thou wast a grovelling, puling chit,Thy bones not fashion'd, and thy joints not knit,The Roman taught thy stubborn knee to bow,Though twice a Caesar could not bend thee now.Hist victory was that of orient light,When the sun's shafts disperse the gloom of night.Thy language at this distant moment shows How much the country to the conqueror owes;Expressive, energetic, and refined,In sparkles with the gems he left behind;He brought thy land a blessing when he came,He found thee savage, and he left thee tame; Taught thee to clothe thy pink'd and painted hide,And grac'd the figure with a soldier's pride;He sow'd the seeds of order where he went,Improv'd thee far beyond his own intent,And, while he ruled thee by his sword alone,Made thee at last a warrior like his own.Religion, if in heavenly truths attired,Needs only to be seen to be admired;But thine, as dark as witcheries of the night,Was form'd to harden hearts and shock the sight;Thy druids struck the well-hung harps they boreWith fingers deeply dyed in human gore;And while the victim slowly bled to death,Upon the rolling chords rung out his dying breath.Who brought the lamp that with awaking beamsDispell'd thy gloom, and broke away thy dreams,Tradition, now decrepit and worn out Babbler of ancient fables, leaves a doubt:But still light reach'd thee; and those gods of thine,Woden and Thor, each tottering in his shrine,Fell broken and defaced at their own door,As Dagon in Philistia long before.But Rome with sorceries and magic wandSoon raised a cloud that darken'd every land,And thine was smother'd in the stench and fogOf Tiber's marshes and the papal bog.Then priests with bulls and briefs and shaven crownsAnd griping fists, and unrelenting frownsLegates and delegates with powers from hell,Though heavenly in pretension fleeced thee wellAnd to this hour to keep it fresh in mind,Some twigs of that old scourge are left behind.Thy soldiery, the pope's well managed pack,Were train'd beneath his lash, and knew the smack,And, when he laid them on the scent of blood,Would hunt a Saracen through fire and flood.Lavish of life, to win an empty tomb,That proved a mint of wealth, a mine to Rome.They left their bones beneath unfriendly skies,His worthless absolution all the prize.Thou wast the veriest slave in days of yoreThat ever dragg'd a chain or tugg'd an oar;Thy monarchs arbitrary, fierce, unjust,Themselves the slaves of bigotry or lust,Disdain'd thy counsels, only in distressFound thee a goodly spunge for power to pressThy chiefs, the lords of many a petty fee,Provoked and harass'd, in return plagued thee;Call'd thee away from peaceable employ,Domestic happiness and rural joy,To waste thy life in arms, or lay it downIn causeless feuds and bickerings of their own.Thy parliaments adored, on bended knees.The sovereignty they were convened to please;Whate'er was ask'd, too timid to resist,Complied with, and were graciously dismiss'd;And if some Spartan soul a doubt express'd, And, blushing at the tameness of the rest,Dared to suppose the subject had a choice, He was a traitor by the general voice.Oh slave! with powers thou didst not dare exert,Verse cannot stoop so low as thy desert;It shakes the sides of splenetic disdain,Thou self-entitled ruler of the main,To trace thee to the date, when yon fair sea,That clips thy shores, had no such charms for thee;When other nations flew from coast to coast,And thou hadst neither fleet nor flag to boast.Kneel now, and lay thy forehead in the dust;Blush if thou canst; not petrified, thou must;Act but an honest and a faithful part;Compare what then thou wast with what thou art;And God's disposing providence confess'd,Obduracy itself must yield the rest.--Then thou art bound to serve him, and to prove,Hour after hour, thy gratitude and love.Has he not hid thee and thy favor'd land,For ages, safe beneath his sheltering hand,Given thee his blessing on the clearest proof,Bid nations leagued against thee stand aloof,And charged hostility and hate to roarWhere else they would, but not upon thy shore?His power secured thee, when presumptuous SpainBaptized her fleet invincible in vain;Her gloomy monarch, doubtful and resign'dTo every pang that racks an anxious mind,Ask'd of the waves that broke upon his coast,What tidings? and the surge replied -- All lost!And when the Stuart, leaning on the Scot, Then too much fear'd, and now too much forgot Pierced to the very centre of the realm,And hoped to seize his abdicated helm,'Twas but to prove how quickly, with a frown,He that had raised thee could have pluck'd thee down.Peculiar is the grace by thee possess'd,Thy foes implacable, thy land at rest;Thy thunders travel over earth and seas,And all at home is pleasure, wealth, and ease.'Tis thus, extending his temptestuous arm,Thy Maker fills the nations with alarm, While his own heaven surveys the troubled scene,And feels no change, unshaken and serene.Freedom, in other lands scarce known to shine,Pours out a flood of splendor upon thine;Thou hast as bright an interest in her raysAs ever Roman had in Rome's best days.True freedom is where no restraint is knownThat Scripture, justice, and good sense disown;Where only vice and injury are tied,And all from shore to shore is free beside.Such freedom is -- and Windsor's hoary towersStood trembling at the boldness of thy powers,That won a nymph on that immortal plain,Like her the fabled Phoebus wooed in vain:He found the laurel only -- happier youThe unfading laurel, and the virgin too!Now think, if pleasure have a thought to spare;If God himself be not beneath her care;If business, constant as the wheels of time,Can pause an hour to read a serious rhyme;If the new mail thy merchants now receive,Or expectation of the next give leave;Oh think, if chargeable with deep arrearsFor such indulgence gilding all thy years,How much, though long neglected, shining yet,The beams of heavenly truth have swell'd the debt.When persecuting zeal made royal sportWith tortured innocence in Mary's court,And Bonner, blithe as shepherd at a wake,Enjoyed the show, and danced about the stake,The sacred book, its value understood,Received the seal of martyrdom in blood.Those holy men, so full of truth and grace,Seem to reflection of a different race,Meek, modest, venerable, wise, sincere,In such a cause they could not dare to fear;They could not purchase earth with such a prize,Or spare a life too short to reach the skies.For them to thee conveyed along the tide,Their streaming hearts pour'd freely when they died;Those truths, which neither use nor years impair,Invite thee, woo thee, to the bliss they share.What dotage will not vanity maintain?What web too weak to catch a modern brain?The moles and bats in full assembly find,On special search, the keen-eyed eagle blind.And did they dream, and art thou wiser now?Prove it -- if better, I submit and bow.Wisdom and goodness are twin-born, one heartMust hold both sisters, never seen apart.So then -- as darkness overspread the deep,Ere nature rose from her eternal sleep,And this delightful earth, and that fair sky,Leap'd out of nothing, call'd by the Most High;By such a change thy darkness is made light,Thy chaos order, and thy weakness might;And He, whose power mere nullity obeys,Who found thee nothing, form'd thee for his praise.To praise him is to serve him, and fulfil,Doing and suffering, his unquestioned will; 'Tis to believe what men inspired of old,Faithful, and faithfully informed, unfold;Candid and just, with no false aim in view,To take for truth what cannot but be true;To learn in God's own school the Christian partAnd bind the task assigned thee to thine heart: Happy the man there seeking and there found;Happy the nation where such men abound!How shall a verse impress thee? by what nameShall I adjure thee not to court thy shame?By theirs whose bright example, unimpeached,Directs thee to that eminence they reached,Heroes and worthies of days past, thy sires?Or his, who touch'd their hearts with hallow'd fires?Their names, alas! in vain reproach an age,Whom all the vanities they scorn'd engage;And his, that seraphs tremble at, is hungDisgracefully on every trifler's tongue,Or serves the champion in forensic warTo flourish and parade with at the bar.Pleasure herself perhaps suggests a plea,If interest move thee, to persuade e'en thee;By every charm that smiles upon her face,By joys possess'd and joys still held in chase,If dear society be worth a thought,And if the feast of freedom cloy thee not,Reflect that these, and all that seems thine ownHeld by the tenure of his will alone,Like angels in the service of their Lord,Remain with thee, or leave thee at his word;That gratitude, and temperance in our useOf what he gives, unsparing and profuse,Secure the favor, and enhance the joy,That thankless waste and wild abuse destroy.But above all reflect on how cheap soe'erThose rights, that millions envy thee, appear,And though resolved to risk them, and swim downThe tide of pleasure, heedless of his frown,That blessings truly sacred, and when givenMark'd with the signature and stamp of Heaven,The word of prophecy, those truths devine,Which make that heaven if thou desire it, thine,(Awful alternative! believed, beloved,Thy glory and thy shame if unimproved,)Are never long vouchsafed, if push'd asideWith cold disgust or philosophic pride;And that judicially withdrawn, disgrace,Error and darkness, occupy their place.A world is up in arms, and thou, a spotNot quickly found, if negligently sought,Thy soul as ample as thy bounds are small,Endur'st the brunt, and dar'st defy them all;And wilt thou join to this bold enterpriseA bolder still, a contest with the skies?Remember, if He guard thee and secure,Whoe'er assails thee, thy success is sure;But if He leave thee, though the skill and pow'rOf nations, sworn to spoil thee and devour,Were all collected in thy single arm, And thou couldst laugh away the fear of harm,That strength would fail, opposed against the pushAnd feeble onset of a pigmy rush.Say not (and if the thought of such defenceShould spring within thy bosom, drive it thence),What nation amongst all my foes is freeFrom crimes as base as any charged on me? Their measure fill'd, they too shall pay the debt,Which God, though long forborne, will not forget.But know that wrath divine, when most severe,Makes justice still the guide of his career,And will not punish, in one mingled crowd,Them without light, and thee without a cloud.Muse, hang his harp upon yon aged beech,Still murmuring with the solemn truths I teach;And, while at intervals a cold blast singsThrough the dry leaves, and pants upon the strings,My soul shall sigh in secret, and lament A nation scourged, yet tardy to repent.I know the warning song is sung in vain;That few will hear, and fewer heed the strain;But if a sweeter voice, and one design'dA blessing to my country and mankind.Reclaim the wandering thousands, and bring homeA flock so scatter'd and so wont to roam,Then place it once again between my knees;The sound of truth will then be sure to please,And truth alone, where'er my life be cast,In scenes of plenty, or the pining waste,Shall be my chosen theme, my glory to the last.

The Task: Book I. -- The Sofa

I sing the Sofa. I who lately sangTruth, Hope, and Charity, and touched with aweThe solemn chords, and with a trembling hand,Escaped with pain from that adventurous flight,Now seek repose upon an humbler theme;The theme though humble, yet august and proudThe occasion, - for the fair commands the song.

Time was when clothing, sumptuous or for use,Save their own painted skins, our sires had none.As yet black breeches were not, satin smooth,Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile.The hardy chief upon the rugged rockWashed by the sea, or on the gravelly bankThrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud,Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength.Those barbarous ages past, succeeded nextThe birthday of invention, weak at first,Dull in design, and clumsy to perform.Joint-stools were then created; on three legsUpborne they stood, - three legs upholding firmA massy slab, in fashion square or round.On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms; And such in ancient halls and mansions drearMay still be seen, but perforated soreAnd drilled in holes the solid oak is found,By worms voracious eating through and through.

At length a generation more refinedImproved the simple plan, made three legs four,Gave them a twisted form vermicular,And o'er the seat with plenteous wadding stuffedInduced a splendid cover green and blue,Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wroughtAnd woven close, or needle-work sublime.There might ye see the peony spread wide,The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass,Lap-dog and lambkin with black staring eyes,And parrots with twin cherries in their beak.

Now came the cane from India, smooth and brightWith Nature's varnish; severed into stripesThat interlaced each other, these supplied Of texture firm a lattice-work, that bracedThe new machine, and it became a chair.But restless was the chair; the back erect Distressed the weary loins that felt no ease;The slippery seat betrayed the sliding partThat pressed it, and the feet hung dangling down,Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.These for the rich: the rest, whom fate had placedIn modest mediocrity, contentWith base materials, sat on well-tanned hidesObdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth,With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn,Or scarlet crewel in the cushion fixed:If cushion might be called, what harder seemedThan the firm oak of which the frame was formed.No want of timber then was felt or fearedIn Albion's happy isle. The lumber stoodPonderous, and fixed by its own massy weight.But elbows still were wanting; these, some say,An Alderman of Cripplegate contrived,And some ascribe the invention to a priestBurly and big and studious of his ease.But rude at first, and not with easy slopeReceding wide, they pressed against the ribs,And bruised the side, and elevated highTaught the raised shoulders to invade the ears.Long time elapsed or ere our rugged siresComplained, though incommodiously pent in,And ill at ease behind. The ladies first'Gan murmur, as became the softer sex.Ingenious fancy, never better pleasedThan when employed to accommodate the fair, Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised The soft settee; one elbow at each end,And in the midst an elbow, it receivedUnited yet divided, twain at once.So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne;And so two citizens who take the airClose packed and smiling in a chaise and one.But relaxation of the languid frameBy soft recumbency of outstretched limbs,Was bliss reserved for happier days; - so slowThe growth of what is excellent, so hardTo attain perfection in this nether world.Thus first necessity invented stools,Convenience next suggested elbow chairs,And luxury the accomplished sofa last.

The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sickWhom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly heWho quits the coach-box at the midnight hourTo sleep within the carriage more secure,His legs depending at the open door.Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk,The tedious rector drawling o'er his head,And sweet the clerk below: but neither sleepOf lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead,Nor his who quits the box at midnight hourTo slumber in the carriage more secure,Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk,Nor yet the dozings of the clerk are sweet,Compared with the repose the sofa yields.

Oh may I live exempted (while I liveGuiltless of pampered appetite obscene,)From pangs arthritic that infest the toeOf libertine excess. The sofa suitsThe gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb,Though on a sofa, may I never feel:For I have loved the rural walk through lanesOf grassy swarth close cropt by nibbling sheep,And skirted thick with intertexture firmOf thorny boughs; have loved the rural walkO'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brinkE'er since a truant boy I passed my boundsTo enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames.And still remember, nor without regretOf hours that sorrow since has much endeared,How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed,Still hungering pennyless and far from home, I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws,Or blushing crabs, or berries that embossThe bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere,Hard fare! but such as boyish appetiteDisdains not, nor the palate undepravedBy culinary arts unsavoury deems.No sofa then awaited my return,Nor sofa then I needed. Youth repairsHis wasted spirits quickly, by long toil Incurring short fatigue; and though our years,As life declines, speed rapidly away,And not a year but pilfers as he goesSome youthful grace that age would gladly keep,A tooth or auburn lock, and by degreesTheir length and colour from the locks they spare;The elastic spring of an unwearied foot That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence,That play of lungs inhaling and againRespiring freely the fresh air, that makesSwift pace or steep ascent no toil to me,Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impairedMy relish of fair prospect: scenes that soothedOr charmed me young, no longer young, I findStill soothing and of power to charm me still.And witness, dear companion of my walks,Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceiveFast locked in mine, with pleasure such as loveConfirmed by long experience of thy worthAnd well-tried virtues could alone inspire, -Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, And that my raptures are not conjur'd upTo serve occasions of poetic pomp,But genuine, and art partner of them all.How oft upon yon eminence our paceHas slacken'd to a pause, and we have borneThe ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew,While admiration, feeding at the eye,And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'dThe distant plough slow moving, and besideHis lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track,The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!Here Ouse, slow winding through a level Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,Conducts the eye along its sinuous courseDelighted. There, fast rooted in his bank,Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms,That screen the herdsman's solitary hut;While far beyond, and overthwart the streamThat, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,The sloping land recedes into the clouds;Displaying on its varied side the graceOf hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r,Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bellsJust undulates upon the list'ning ear,Groves, heaths and smoking villages remote.Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily view'd,Please daily, and whose novelty survivesLong knowledge and the scrutiny of years.Praise justly due to those that I describe.

Nor rural sights alone, but rural soundsExhilarate the spirit, and restoreThe tone of languid nature. Mighty windsThat sweep the skirt of some far-spreading woodOf ancient growth, make music not unlikeThe dash of ocean on his winding shore,And lull the spirit while they fill the mind,Unnumbered branches waving in the blast,And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at onceNor less composure waits upon the roarOf distant floods, or on the softer voiceOf neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slipThrough the cleft rock, and chiming as they fallUpon loose pebbles, lose themselves at lengthIn matted grass, that with a livelier greenBetrays the secret of their silent course.Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,But animated nature sweeter stillTo soothe and satisfy the human ear.Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The livelong night: nor these alone whose notesNice-fingered art must emulate in vain,But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublimeIn still repeated circles, screaming loud, The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reignsAnd only there, please highly for their sake.

Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thoughtDevised the weather-house, that useful toy!Fearless of humid air and gathering rainsForth steps the man, an emblem of myself;More delicate his timorous mate retires.When winter soaks the fields, and female feetToo weak to struggle with tenacious clay,Or ford the the rivulets, are best at home, The task of new discoveries falls on me.At such a season and with such a chargeOnce went I forth, and found, till then unknown,A cottage, whither oft we since repair:'Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but closeEnvironed with a ring of branching elmsThat overhang the thatch, itself unseen,Peeps at the vale below; so thick besetWith foliage of such dark redundant growth,I called the low-roofed lodge the peasant's nest.

And hidden as it is, and far remoteFrom such unpleasing sounds as haunt the earIn village or in town, the bay of cursIncessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained,Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine.Here, I have said, at least I should possessThe poet's treasure, silence, and indulgeThe dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreatDearly obtains the refuge it affords.Its elevated site forbids the wretch To drink sweet waters of the crystal well;He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,And heavy-laden brings his beverage home, Far-fetched and little worth; nor seldom waits,Dependent on the baker's punctual call,To hear his creaking panniers at the door,Angry and sad, and his last crust consumed.So farewell envy of the peasant's nest.

If solitude make scant the means of life, Society for me! Thou seeming sweet,Be still a pleasing object in my view,My visit still, but never mine abode.

Not distant far, a length of colonnadeInvites us: Monument of ancient taste,Now scorned, but worthy of a better fate.Our fathers knew the value of a screenFrom sultry suns, and in their shaded walks And long-protracted bowers, enjoyed at noonThe gloom and coolness of declining day.We bear our shades about us; self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread,And range an Indian waste without a tree.Thanks to Benevolus; he spares me yetThese chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines,And though himself so polished, still reprievesThe obsolete prolixity of shade.

Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast,)A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridgeWe pass a gulf in which the willows dipTheir pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.Hence ankle-deep in moss and flowery thymeWe mount again, and feel at every stepOur foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft,Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil.He not unlike the great ones of mankind,Disfigures earth, and plotting in the darkToils much to earn a monumental pile,That may record the mischiefs he has done.

The summit gained, behold the proud alcoveThat crowns it! yet not all its pride securesThe grant retreat from injuries impressed By rural carvers, who with knives defaceThe panels, leaving an obscure rude name In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.So strong the zeal to immortalise himself Beats in the breast of man, that even a fewFew transient years won from the abyss abhorredOf blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize,And even to a clown. Now roves the eye,And posted on this speculative height Exults in its command. The sheep-fold herePours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe,At first progressive as a stream, they seekThe middle field; but scattered by degreesEach to his choice, soon whiten all the land.There, from the sun-burnt hay-field homeward creepsThe loaded wain, while lightened of its chargeThe wain that meets it passes swiftly by,The boorish driver leaning o'er his teamVociferous, and impatient of delay.Nor less attractive is the woodland scene,Diversified with trees of every growthAlike yet various. Here the gray smooth trunksOf ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine,Within the twilight of their distant shades;There lost behind a rising ground, the woodSeems sunk, and shortened to its topmost boughs.No tree in all the grove but has its charms,Though each its hue peculiar; paler some,And of a wanish gray; the willow suchAnd poplar, that with silver lines his leaf,And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm; Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still,Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak. Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun,The maple, and the beech of oily nutsProlific, and the line at dewy eveDiffusing odours: nor unnoted passThe sycamore, capricious in attire,Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yetHave changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright.O'er these, but far beyond, (a spacious mapOf hill and valley interposed between,)The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land,Now glitters in the sun, and now retires,As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.

Hence the declevity is sharp and short,And such the re-ascent; between them weepsA little naiad her impoverished urnAll summer long, which winter fills again.The folded gates would bar my progress now,But that the lord of this enclosed demesne,Communicative of the good he owns,Admits me to a share: the guiltless eyeCommits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys.Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun?By short transition we have lost his glare,And stepped at once into a cooler clime. Ye fallen avenues! once more I mournYour fate unmerited, once more rejoiceThat yet a remnant of your race survives.How airy and how light the graceful arch, Yet awful as the consecrated roofRe-echoing pious anthems! while beneathThe chequered earth seems restless as a floodBrushed by the wind. So sportive is the lightShot through the boughs, it dances as they dance,Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, And darkening and enlightening, as the leavesPlay wanton, every moment, every spot.

And now with nerves new-braced and spirits cheeredWe tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walksWith curvature of slow and easy sweep, -Deception innocent, - give ample spaceTo narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;Between the upright shafts of whose tall elmsWe may discern the thresher at his task.Thump after thump, resounds the constant flail,That seems to swing uncertain, and yet fallsFull on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff,The rustling straw sends up a frequent mistOf atoms sparkling in the noonday beam.Come hither, ye that press your beds of downAnd sleep not, - see him sweating o'er his breadBefore he eats it. - 'Tis the primal curse,But softened into mercy; made the pledgeOf cheerful days, and nights without a groan.

By ceaseless action, all that is subsists.Constant rotation of the unwearied wheelThat nature rides upon, maintains her health,Her beauty, her fertility. She dreadsAn instant's pause, and lives but while she moves.Its own resolvency upholds the world.Winds from all quarters agitate the air,And fit the limpid elements for use,Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streamsBy restless undulation. Even the oakThrives by the rude concussion of the storm;He seems indeed indignant, and to feelThe impression of the blast with proud disdain, Frowning as if in his unconscious armHe held the thunder. But the monarch owesHis firm stability to what he scorns,More fixed below, the more disturbed above.The law by which all creatures else are bound,Binds man the lord of all. Himself derivesNo mean advantage from a kindred cause,From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease.The sedentary stretch their lazy length When custom bids, but no refreshment find, For none they need: the languid eye, the cheekDeserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk,And withered muscle, and the vapid soul,Reproach their owner with that love of restTo which he forfeits even the rest he loves.Not such the alert and active. Measure life By its true worth, the comforts it affords,And theirs alone seems worthy of the nameGood health, and its associate in the most, Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake, And not soon spent, though in an arduous task;The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs;Even age itself seems privileged in themWith clear exemption from its own defects.A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front The veteran shows, and gracing a gray beardWith youthful smiles, descends towards the graveSprightly, and old almost without decay.

Like a coy maiden, ease, when courted most,Farthest retires, - an idol, at whose shrine Who oftenest sacrifice are favoured least.The love of nature, and the scenes she draws Is nature's dictate. Strange! there should be foundWho self-imprisoned in their proud saloons,Renounce the odours of the open fieldFor the unscented fictions of the loom;Who satisfied with only pencilled scenes,Prefer to the performance of a God The inferior wonders of an artist's hand.Lovely indeed the mimic works of art,But nature's works far lovelier. I admire -None more admires the painter's magic skill, Who shows me that which I shall never see,Conveys a distant country into mine, And throws Italian light on English walls.But imitative strokes can do no moreThan please the eye, sweet nature every sense.The air salubrious of her lofty hills,The cheering fragrance of her dewy valesAnd music of her woods, - no works of manMay rival these; these all bespeak a powerPeculiar, and exclusively her own.Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;'Tis free to all, - 'tis every day renewed,Who scorns it, starves deservedly at home. He does not scorn it, who imprisoned longIn some unwholesome dungeon, and a preyTo sallow sickness, which the vapours dankAnd clammy of his dark abode have bred,Escapes at last to liberty and light.His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue, His eye relumines its extinguished fires,He walks, he leaps, he runs, - is winged with joy. And riots in the sweets of every breeze.He does not scorn it, who has long endured A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed With acrid salts; his very heart athirstTo gaze at nature in her green array.Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possessedWith visions prompted by intense desire;Fair fields appear below, such as he left Far distant, such as he would die to find, -He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.

The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns; The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown,And sullen sadness that o'ershade, distort,And mar the face of beauty, when no causeFor such immeasurable woe appears,These Flora banishes, and gives the fairSweet smiles and bloom less transient than her own.It is the constant revolution staleAnd tasteless, of the same repeated joys,That palls and satiates, and makes the languid lifeA pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down.Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heartRecoils from its own choice, - at the full feastIs famished, - finds no music in the song,No smartness in the jest, and wonders why.Yet thousands still desire to journey on,Though halt and weary on the path they tread.The paralytic who can hold her cardsBut cannot play them, borrows a friend's handTo deal and shuffle, to divide and sortHer mingled suits and sequences, and sitsSpectatress both and spectacle, a sadAnd silent cypher, while her proxy plays,Others are dragged into the crowded roomBetween supporters; and once seated, sit Through downright inability to rise,Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again.These speak a loud memento. Yet even theseThemselves love life, and cling to it, as heThat overhangs a torrent to a twig.They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die.Yet scorn the purposes for which they live.Then wherefore not renounce them? No - the dread,The slavish dread of solitude that breedsReflection and remorse, the fear of shame,And their inveterate habits, all forbid.

Whom call we gay? That honour has been longThe boast of mere pretenders to the name.The innocent are gay; - the lark is gayThat dries his feathers saturate with dewBeneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beamsOf day-spring overshoot his humble nest.The peasant too, a witness of his song,Himself a songster, is as gay as he.But save me from the gaiety of thoseWhose headaches nail them to a noon-day bed;And save me too from theirs whose haggard eyesFlash desperation, and betray their pangsFor property stripped off by cruel chance;From gaiety that fills the bones with pain,The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe.

The earth was made so various, that the mindOf desultory man, studious of change,And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.Prospects however lovely may be seenTill half their beauties fade; the weary sight,Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides offFastidious, seeking less familiar scenes.Then snug enclosures in the sheltered vale,Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,Delight us, happy to renounce a while, Not senseless of its charms, what still we love,That such short absence may endear it more.Then forests, or the savage rock may please,That hides the sea-mew in his hollow cleftsAbove the reach of man: his hoary headConspicuous many a league, the marmerBound homeward, and in hope already there,Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waistA girdle of half-withered shrubs he shows,And at his feet the baffled billows die.The common overgrown with fern, and roughWith prickly goss, that shapeless and deformAnd dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloomAnd decks itself with ornaments of gold,Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turfSmells fresh, and rich in odoriferous herbsAnd fungous fruits of earth, regales the senseWith luxury of unexpected sweets.

There often wanders one, whom better daysSaw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmedWith lace, and hat with splendid riband bound.A serving-maid was she, and fell in loveWith one who left her, went to sea and died.Her fancy followed him through foaming wavesTo distant shores, and she would sit and weepAt what a sailor suffers; fancy too,Delusive most where warmest wishes are,Would oft anticipate his glad return,And dream of transports she was not to know.She heard the doleful tidings of his death,And never smiled again. And now she roams The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day.And there, unless when charity forbids,The livelong night. A tattered apron hides,Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides a gownMore tattered still; and both but ill concealA bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.She begs an idle pin of all she meets,And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,Though pinched with cold, asks never. - Kate is crazed.

I see a colemn of slow-rising smokeO'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eatTheir miserable meal. A kettle slungBetween two poles upon a stick transverse,Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog,Or vermin, or at best, of cock purloinedFrom his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race!They pick their fuel out of every hedge,Which kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenched The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wideTheir fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin, The vellum of pedigree they claim. Great skill have they in palmistry, and more To conjure clean away the gold they touch,Conveying worthless dross into its place.Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.Strange! that a creature rational, and castIn human mould, should brutalize by choiceHis nature, and though capable of artsBy which the world might profit and himself,Self-banished from society, preferSuch squalid sloth to honourable toil.Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limbAnd vex their flesh with artificial sores,Can change their whine into a mirthful noteWhen safe occasion offers, and with danceAnd music of the bladder and the bag Beguile their woes and make the woods resound.Such health and gaiety of heart enjoyThe houseless rovers of the sylvan world;And breathing wholesome air, and wandering much,Need other physic none to heal the effectsOf loathsome diet, penury, and cold.

Blest he, though undistinguished from the crowd By wealth or dignity, who dwells secureWhere man, by nature fierce, has laid asideHis fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn,The manners and the arts of civil life.His wants, indeed, are many: but supplyIs obvious; placed within the easy reachOf temperate wishes and industrious hands.Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil;Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns,And terrible to sight, as when she springs,(If e'er she springs spontaneous,) in remoteAnd barbarous climes, where violence prevailsAnd strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind. By culture tamed, by liberty refreshed,And all her fruits by radiant truth matured.War and the chase engross the savage whole;War followed for revenge, or to supplant The envied tenants of some happier spot,The chase for sustenance, precarious trust!His hard condition with severe constraintBinds all his faculties, forbids all growthOf wisdom, proves a school in which he learnsSly circumvention, unrelenting hate,Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside.Thus fare the shivering natives of the north,And thus the rangers of the western worldWhere it advances far into the deep,Towards the Antarctic. Even the favoured islesSo lately found, although the constant sunCheer all their seasons with a grateful smile,Can boast but little virtue; and inertThrough plenty, lose in morals what they gainIn manners, victims of luxurious ease.These therefore I can pity, placed remoteFrom all that science traces, art invents,Or inspiration teaches; and enclosedIn boundless oceans never to be passed By navigators uninformed as they, Or ploughed perhaps by British bark againBut far beyond the rest, and with most cause,Thee, gentle savage! whom no love theeOr thine, but curiosity perhaps,Or else vain-glory, prompted us to drawForth from thy native bowers, to show thee hereWith what superior skill we can abuseThe gifts of Providence, and squander life.The dream is past. And thou hast found againThy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams,And homestall thatched with leaves. But hast thou foundTheir former charms? And having seen our state,Our palaces, our ladies, and our pompOf equipage, our gardens, and our sports,And heard our music; are thy simple friends,Thy simple fair, and all thy plain delightsAs dear to thee as once? And have thy joysLost nothing by comparison with ours?Rude as thou art (for we returned thee rude And ignorant except of outward show,)I cannot think thee yet so dull of heartAnd spiritless, as never to regretSweets tasted here, and left as soon as known.Methinks I see thee straying on the beach,And asking of the surge that bathes thy foot If ever it has washed our distant shore.I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears,A patriot's for his country. Thou art sadAt though of her forlorn and abject state,From which no power of thine can raise her up.Thus fancy paints thee, and though apt to err,Perhaps errs little, when she paints thee thus.She tells me too, that duly every mornThou climbst the mountain top, with eager eyeExploring far and wide the watery wasteFor sight of ship from England. Every speckSeen in the dim horizon, turns thee paleWith conflict of contending hopes and fears,But comes at last the dull and dusky eve,And sends thee to thy cabin well-prepared To dream all night of what the day denied.Alas! expect it not. We found no baitTo tempt us in thy country. Doing good,Disinterested good, is not our trade.We travel far, 'tis true, but not for nought; And must be bribed to compass earth againBy other hopes and richer fruits than yours.

But though true worth and virtue, in the mildAnd genial soil of cultivated life,Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there,Yet not in cities oft, - in proud and gayAnd gain-devoted cities. Thither flow,As to a common and most noisome sewer,The dregs and feculence of every land.In cities foul example on most mindsBegets its likeness. Rank abundance breedsIn gross and pamper'd cities sloth and lust,And wantonness and gluttonous excess.In cities vice is hidden with most ease,Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taughtBy frequent lapse, can hope no triumph thereBeyond th' achievement of successful flight.I do confess them nurseries of the arts,In which they flourish most; where, in the beamsOf warm encouragement, and in the eyeOf public note, they reach their perfect size.Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'dThe fairest capital of all the world,By riot and incontinence the worst.There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomesA lucid mirror, in which Nature seesAll her reflected features. Bacon thereGives more than female beauty to a stone,And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.Nor does the chisel occupy alone The powers of sculpture, but the style as much; Each province of her heart her equal care.With nice incision of her guided steelShe ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soilSo sterile with what charms soe'er she will,The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. Where finds philosophy her eagle eyeWith which she gazes at yon burning diskUndazzled, and detects and counts his spots?In London. Where her implements exact With which she calculates, computes and scans All distance, motion, magnitude, and nowMeasures an atom, and now girds a world?In London. Where has commerce such a mart,So rich, so thronged, so drained, and so suppliedAs London, opulent, enlarged and stillIncreasing London? Babylon of oldNot more the glory of the earth, than sheA more accomplished world's chief glory now.

She has her praise. Now mark a spot or twoThat so much beauty would do well to purge;And show this queen of cities, that so fair May yet be foul, so witty, yet not wise.It is not seemly nor of good reportThat she is slack in discipline, - more promptTo avenge than to prevent the breach of law.That she is rigid in denouncing deathOn petty robbers, and indulges lifeAnd liberty, and oft-times honour too To peculators of the public gold.That thieves at home must hang; but he that putsInto his overgorged and bloated purseThe wealth of Indian provinces, escapes,Nor is it well, nor can it come to good,That through profane and infidel contemptOf holy writ, she has presumed to annulAnd abrogate, as roundly as she may,The total ordinance and will of God; Advancing fashion to the post of truth,And centring all authority in modesAnd customs of her own, till Sabbath ritesHave dwindled into unrespected forms, And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorced.

God made the country, and man made the town.What wonder then that health and virtue, giftsThat can alone make sweet the bitter draughtThat life holds out to all, should most aboundAnd least be threaten'd in the fields and groves?Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne aboutIn chariots and sedans, know no fatigueBut that of idleness, and taste no scenesBut such as art contrives, - possess ye stillYour element; there only ye can shine,There only minds like yours can do no harm.Our groves were planted to console at noonThe pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eveThe moonbeam, sliding softly in betweenThe sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,Birds warbling all the music. We can spareThe splendour of your lamps, they but eclipseOur softer satellite. Your songs confoundOur more harmonious notes: the thrush departsScared, and th' offended nightingale is mute.There is a public mischief in your mirth;It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,Grac'd with a sword, and worthier of a fan,Has made, which enemies could ne'er have done,Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you,A mutilated structure, soon to fall.

The Task: Book Iv. -- The Winter Evening

Hark! ‘tis the twanging horn o’er yonder bridge,That with its wearisome but needful lengthBestrides the wintry flood, in which the moonSees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;—He comes, the herald of a noisy world,With spatter’d boots, strapp’d waist, and frozen locks;News from all nations lumbering at his back.True to his charge, the close-pack’d load behind,Yet, careless what he brings, his one concernIs to conduct it to the destined inn,And, having dropp’d the expected bag, pass on.He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of griefPerhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;To him indifferent whether grief or joy.Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wetWith tears, that trickled down the writer’s cheeksFast as the periods from his fluent quill,Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,Or nymphs responsive, equally affectHis horse and him, unconscious of them all.But O the important budget! usher’d inWith such heart-shaking music, who can sayWhat are its tidings? have our troops awaked?Or do they still, as if with opium drugg’d,Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?Is India free? and does she wear her plumedAnd jewell’d turban with a smile of peace,Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,The popular harangue, the tart reply,The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,And the loud laugh—I long to know them all;I burn to set the imprison’d wranglers free,And give them voice and utterance once again.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urnThrows up a steamy column, and the cups,That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,So let us welcome peaceful evening in.Not such his evening, who with shining faceSweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezedAnd bored with elbow points through both his sides,Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage:Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,And his head thumps, to feed upon the breathOf patriots, bursting with heroic rage,Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.This folio of four pages, happy work!Which not e’en critics criticise; that holdsInquisitive attention, while I read,Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break;What is it but a map of busy life,Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridgeThat tempts Ambition. On the summit seeThe seals of office glitter in his eyes;He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels,Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down,And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.Here rills of oily eloquence, in softMeanders, lubricate the course they take;The modest speaker is ashamed and grievedTo engross a moment’s notice; and yet begs,Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,However trivial all that he conceives.Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise;The dearth of information and good sense,That it foretells us, always comes to pass.Cataracts of declamation thunder here;There forests of no meaning spread the page,In which all comprehension wanders lost;While fields of pleasantry amuse us thereWith merry descants on a nation’s woes.The rest appears a wilderness of strangeBut gay confusion; roses for the cheeksAnd lilies for the brows of faded age,Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder’d of their sweets,Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs,Æthereal journeys, submarine exploits,And Katerfelto, with his hair on endAt his own wonders, wondering for his bread.

‘Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,To peep at such a world; to see the stirOf the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;To hear the roar she sends through all her gatesAt a safe distance, where the dying soundFalls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.Thus sitting, and surveying thus at easeThe globe and its concerns, I seem advancedTo some secure and more than mortal heightThat liberates and exempts me from them all.It turns submitted to my view, turns roundWith all its generations; I beholdThe tumult and am still. The sound of warHas lost its terrors ere it reaches me;Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the prideAnd avarice that make man a wolf to man;Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats,By which he speaks the language of his heart,And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.He travels and expatiates, as the beeFrom flower to flower, so he from land to land;The manners, customs, policy of all Pay contribution to the store he gleans;He sucks intelligence in every clime,And spreads the honey of his deep research At his return—a rich repast for me.He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyesDiscover countries, with a kindred heartSuffer his woes, and share in his escapes;While fancy, like the finger of a clock,Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

O Winter, ruler of the inverted year,Thy scatter’d hair with sleet like ashes fill’d,Thy breath congeal’d upon thy lips, thy cheeksFringed with a beard made white with other snowsThan those of age, thy forehead wrapp’d in clouds,A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throneA sliding car, indebted to no wheels,But urged by storms along its slippery way,I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem’st,And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold’st the sunA prisoner in the yet undawning east,Shortening his journey between morn and noon,And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,Down to the rosy west; but kindly stillCompensating his loss with added hoursOf social converse and instructive ease,And gathering, at short notice, in one groupThe family dispersed, and fixing thought,Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.I crown thee king of intimate delights,Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness,And all the comforts that the lowly roofOf undisturb’d Retirement, and the hoursOf long uninterrupted evening know.No rattling wheels stop short before these gates;No powder’d pert proficient in the artOf sounding an alarm assaults these doorsTill the street rings; no stationary steedsCough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound,The silent circle fan themselves, and quake:But here the needle plies its busy task,The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower,Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,Follow the nimble finger of the fair;A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blowWith most success when all besides decay.The poet’s or historian’s page by oneMade vocal for the amusement of the rest;The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet soundsThe touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;And the clear voice, symphonious, yet distinct,And in the charming strife triumphant still,Beguile the night, and set a keener edgeOn female industry: the threaded steelFlies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.The volume closed, the customary ritesOf the last meal commence. A Roman meal,Such as the mistress of the world once foundDelicious, when her patriots of high note,Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors,And under an old oak’s domestic shade,Enjoy’d, spare feast! a radish and an egg!Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull,Nor such as with a frown forbids the playOf fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth:Nor do we madly, like an impious world,Who deem religion frenzy, and the GodThat made them an intruder on their joys,Start at his awful name, or deem his praiseA jarring note. Themes of a graver tone,Exciting oft our gratitude and love,While we retrace with Memory’s pointing wand,That calls the past to our exact review,The dangers we have ‘scaped, the broken snare,The disappointed foe, deliverance foundUnlook’d for, life preserved, and peace restored,Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.O evenings worthy of the gods! exclaim’dThe Sabine bard. O evenings, I reply,More to be prized and coveted than yours,As more illumined, and with nobler truths,That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy.

Is Winter hideous in a garb like this?Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps,The pent-up breath of an unsavoury throng,To thaw him into feeling; or the smartAnd snappish dialogue, that flippant witsCall comedy, to prompt him with a smile?The self-complacent actor, when he views(Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house)The slope of faces from the floor to the roof(As if one master spring controll’d them all),Relax’d into a universal grin,Sees not a countenance there that speaks of joyHalf so refined or so sincere as ours.Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricksThat idleness has ever yet contrivedTo fill the void of an unfurnish’d brain,To palliate dulness, and give time a shove.Time, as he passes us, has a dove’s wing.Unsoil’d, and swift, and of a silken sound;But the World’s Time is Time in masquerade!Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledgedWith motley plumes; and, where the peacock showsHis azure eyes, is tinctured black and redWith spots quadrangular of diamond form,Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife,And spades, the emblem of untimely graves.What should be, and what was an hour-glass once,Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard maceWell does the work of his destructive scythe.Thus deck’d, he charms a world whom Fashion blindsTo his true worth, most pleased when idle most;Whose only happy are their wasted hours.E’en misses, at whose age their mothers woreThe backstring and the bib, assume the dressOf womanhood, fit pupils in the schoolOf card-devoted Time, and, night by nightPlaced at some vacant corner of the board,Learn every trick, and soon play all the game.But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, Where shall I find an end, or how proceed?As he that travels far oft turns aside,To view some rugged rock or mouldering tower,Which seen delights him not; then, coming home,Describes and prints it, that the world may knowHow far he went for what was nothing worth;So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread,With colours mix’d for a far different use,Paint cards, and dolls, and every idle thingThat Fancy finds in her excursive flights.

Come, Evening, once again, season of peace;Return, sweet Evening, and continue long!Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,With matron step slow moving, while the NightTreads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ’dIn letting fall the curtain of reposeOn bird and beast, the other charged for manWith sweet oblivion of the cares of day:Not sumptuously adorn’d, not needing aid,Like homely featured Night, of clustering gems;A star or two, just twinkling on thy browSuffices thee; save that the moon is thineNo less than hers, not worn indeed on highWith ostentatious pageantry, but setWith modest grandeur in thy purple zone,Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm,Or make me so. Composure is thy gift:And, whether I devote thy gentle hoursTo books, to music, or the poet’s toil;To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit;Or twining silken threads round ivory reels,When they command whom man was born to please;I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still.

Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blazeWith lights, by clear reflection multipliedFrom many a mirror, in which he of Gath,Goliath, might have seen his giant bulkWhole without stooping, towering crest and all,My pleasures too begin. But me perhapsThe glowing hearth may satisfy awhileWith faint illumination, that upliftsThe shadows to the ceiling, there by fitsDancing uncouthly to the quivering flame.Not undelightful is an hour to meSo spent in parlour twilight: such a gloomSuits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind,The mind contemplative, with some new themePregnant, or indisposed alike to all.Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers,That never felt a stupor, know no pause,Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess,Fearless, a soul that does not always think.Me oft has Fancy ludicrous and wildSoothed with a waking dream of houses, towers,Trees, churches, and strange visages, express’dIn the red cinders, while with poring eyeI gazed, myself creating what I saw.Nor less amused, have I quiescent watch’dThe sooty films that play upon the bars,Pendulous and foreboding, in the viewOf superstition, prophesying still,Though still deceived, some stranger’s near approach.‘Tis thus the understanding takes reposeIn indolent vacuity of thought,And sleeps and is refresh’d. Meanwhile the faceConceals the mood lethargic with a maskOf deep deliberation, as the manWere task’d to his full strength, absorb’d and lost.Thus oft, reclined at ease, I lose an hourAt evening, till at length the freezing blast, That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons homeThe recollected powers; and, snapping shortThe glassy threads with which the fancy weavesHer brittle toils, restores me to myself.How calm is my recess; and how the frost,Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endearThe silence and the warmth enjoy’d within!I saw the woods and fields at close of dayA variegated show; the meadows green,Though faded; and the lands, where lately wavedThe golden harvest, of a mellow brown,Upturn’d so lately by the forceful share.I saw far off the weedy fallows smileWith verdure not unprofitable, grazedBy flocks, fast feeding, and selecting eachHis favourite herb; while all the leafless grovesThat skirt the horizon, wore a sable hueScarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve.To-morrow brings a change, a total change!Which even now, though silently perform’d, And slowly, and by most unfelt, the faceOf universal nature undergoes.Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakesDescending, and with never-ceasing lapse,Softly alighting upon all below,Assimilate all objects. Earth receivesGladly the thickening mantle; and the greenAnd tender blade, that fear’d the chilling blast,Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.

In such a world so thorny, and where noneFinds happiness unblighted; or, if found,Without some thistly sorrow at its side;It seems the part of wisdom, and no sinAgainst the law of love, to measure lotsWith less distinguish’d than ourselves; that thusWe may with patience bear our moderate ills,And sympathise with others suffering more.Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalksIn ponderous boots beside his reeking team.The wain goes heavily, impeded soreBy congregated loads, adhering closeTo the clogg’d wheels; and in its sluggish paceNoiseless appears a moving hill of snow.The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide,While every breath, by respiration strongForced downward, is consolidated soonUpon their jutting chests. He, form’d to bearThe pelting brunt of the tempestuous night,With half-shut eyes, and pucker’d cheeks, and teethPresented bare against the storm, plods on.One hand secures his hat, save when with bothHe brandishes his pliant length of whip,Resounding oft, and never heard in vain.O happy; and, in my account, deniedThat sensibility of pain with whichRefinement is endued, thrice happy thou!Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeedThe piercing cold, but feels it unimpair’d.The learned finger never need exploreThy vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful east,That breathes the spleen, and searches every boneOf the infirm, is wholesome air to thee.Thy days roll on exempt from household care;Thy waggon is thy wife, and the poor beasts,That drag the dull companion to and fro,Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care.Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appear’st, Yet show that thou hast mercy! which the great,With needless hurry whirl’d from place to place,Humane as they would seem, not always show.

Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat,Such claim compassion in a night like this,And have a friend in every feeling heart.Warm’d, while it lasts, by labour all day long,They brave the season, and yet find at eve,Ill clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool.The frugal housewife trembles when she lightsHer scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear,But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys.The few small embers left she nurses well;And, while her infant race, with outspread hands,And crowded knees, sit cowering o’er the sparks,Retires, content to quake, so they be warm’d.The man feels least, as more inured than sheTo winter, and the current in his veinsMore briskly moved by his severer toil;Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs.The taper soon extinguish’d, which I sawDangled along at the cold finger’s endJust when the day declined; and the brown loafLodged on the shelf, half eaten without sauceOf savoury cheese, or butter, costlier still;Sleep seems their only refuge: for, alas!Where penury is felt the thought is chain’d,And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few!With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care,Ingenious Parsimony takes, but justSaves the small inventory, bed, and stool,Skillet, and old carved chest, from public sale.They live, and live without extorted almsFrom grudging hands; but other boast have noneTo soothe their honest pride, that scorns to beg,Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love.I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair,For ye are worthy; choosing rather farA dry but independent crust, hard earn’d,And eaten with a sigh, than to endureThe rugged frowns and insolent rebuffsOf knaves in office, partial in the workOf distribution, liberal of their aidTo clamorous importunity in rags,But ofttimes deaf to suppliants, who would blushTo wear a tatter’d garb however coarse,Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth:These ask with painful shyness, and refusedBecause deserving, silently retire!But be ye of good courage! Time itselfShall much befriend you. Time shall give increase;And all your numerous progeny, well train’d,But helpless, in few years shall find their hands,And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not wantWhat, conscious of your virtues, we can spare,Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send.I mean the man who, when the distant poorNeed help, denies them nothing but his name.

But poverty with most, who whimper forthTheir long complaints, is self-inflicted woe;The effect of laziness or sottish waste.Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroadFor plunder; much solicitous how bestHe may compensate for a day of slothBy works of darkness and nocturnal wrong.Woe to the gardener’s pale, the farmer’s hedge,Plash’d neatly, and secured with driven stakesDeep in the loamy bank! Uptorn by strength,Resistless in so bad a cause, but lameTo better deeds, he bundles up the spoil,An ass’s burden, and, when laden mostAnd heaviest, light of foot steals fast away;Nor does the boarded hovel better guardThe well-stack’d pile of riven logs and rootsFrom his pernicious force. Nor will he leaveUnwrench’d the door, however well secured,Where Chanticleer amidst his harem sleepsIn unsuspecting pomp. Twitch’d from the perch,He gives the princely bird, with all his wives,To his voracious bag, struggling in vain,And loudly wondering at the sudden change.Nor this to feed his own. ‘Twere some excuse,Did pity of their sufferings warp asideHis principle, and tempt him into sinFor their support, so destitute. But theyNeglected pine at home; themselves, as moreExposed than others, with less scruple madeHis victims, robb’d of their defenceless all.Cruel is all he does. ‘Tis quenchless thirstOf ruinous ebriety that promptsHis every action, and imbrutes the man.O for a law to noose the villain’s neckWho starves his own; who persecutes the bloodHe gave them in his children’s veins, and hatesAnd wrongs the woman he has sworn to love!

Pass where we may, through city or through town,Village, or hamlet, of this merry land,Though lean and beggar’d, every twentieth paceConducts the unguarded nose to such a whiffOf stale debauch, forth issuing from the styesThat law has licensed, as makes temperance reel.There sit, involved and lost in curling cloudsOf Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor,The lackey, and the groom: the craftsman thereTakes a Lethean leave of all his toil;Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears,And he that kneads the dough; all loud alike,All learned, and all drunk! the fiddle screamsPlaintive and piteous, as it wept and wail’dIts wasted tones and harmony unheard:Fierce the dispute, whate’er the theme; while she,Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate,Perch’d on the sign-post, holds with even handHer undecisive scales. In this she laysA weight of ignorance; in that, of pride;And smiles delighted with the eternal poise.Dire is the frequent curse, and its twin sound,The cheek-distending oath, not to be praisedAs ornamental, musical, polite,Like those which modern senators employ,Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame!Behold the schools in which plebeian minds,Once simple, are initiated in arts,Which some may practise with politer grace,But none with readier skill!—’tis here they learnThe road that leads from competence and peaceTo indigence and rapine; till at lastSociety, grown weary of the load,Shakes her encumber’d lap, and casts them out.But censure profits little: vain the attemptTo advertise in verse a public pest,That, like the filth with which the peasant feedsHis hungry acres, stinks, and is of use.The excise is fatten’d with the rich resultOf all this riot; and ten thousand casks,For ever dribbling out their base contents,Touch’d by the Midas finger of the state,Bleed gold for ministers to sport away.Drink, and be mad then; ‘tis your country bids!Gloriously drunk, obey the important call!Her cause demands the assistance of your throat;—Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.

Would I had fallen upon those happier days,That poets celebrate; those golden times,And those Arcadian scenes, that Maro sings,And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose.Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had heartsThat felt their virtues: Innocence, it seems,From courts dismiss’d, found shelter in the groves;The footsteps of Simplicity, impress’dUpon the yielding herbage (so they sing)Then were not all effaced: then speech profaneAnd manners profligate were rarely found,Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaim’d.Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreamsSat for the picture: and the poet’s hand,Imparting substance to an empty shade,Imposed a gay delirium for a truth.Grant it:—I still must envy them an ageThat favour’d such a dream; in days like theseImpossible, when Virtue is so scarce,That to suppose a scene where she presides,Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief.No: we are polish’d now! The rural lass,Whom once her virgin modesty and grace,Her artless manners, and her neat attire,So dignified, that she was hardly lessThan the fair shepherdess of old romance,Is seen no more. The character is lost!Her head, adorn’d with lappets pinn’d aloft,And ribands streaming gay, superbly raised,And magnified beyond all human size,Indebted to some smart wig-weaver’s handFor more than half the tresses it sustains;Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering formIll propp’d upon French heels; she might be deem’d(But that the basket dangling on her armInterprets her more truly) of a rankToo proud for dairy work, or sale of eggs.Expect her soon with footboy at her heels,No longer blushing for her awkward load,Her train and her umbrella all her care!

The town has tinged the country; and the stainAppears a spot upon a vestal’s robe,The worse for what it soils. The fashion runsDown into scenes still rural; but, alas!Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now!Time was when in the pastoral retreatThe unguarded door was safe; men did not watchTo invade another’s right, or guard their own.Then sleep was undisturb’d by fear, unscaredBy drunken howlings; and the chilling taleOf midnight murder was a wonder heardWith doubtful credit, told to frighten babes.But farewell now to unsuspicious nights,And slumbers unalarm’d! Now, ere you sleep,See that your polish’d arms be primed with care,And drop the night bolt;—ruffians are abroad;And the first ‘larum of the cock’s shrill throatMay prove a trumpet, summoning your earTo horrid sounds of hostile feet within.E’en daylight has its dangers; and the walkThrough pathless wastes and woods, unconscious onceOf other tenants than melodious birds,Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold.Lamented change! to which full many a causeInveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires.The course of human things from good to ill,From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails.Increase of power begets increase of wealth;Wealth luxury, and luxury excess;Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague,That seizes first the opulent, descendsTo the next rank contagious, and in timeTaints downward all the graduated scaleOf order, from the chariot to the plough.The rich, and they that have an arm to checkThe licence of the lowest in degree,Desert their office; and themselves, intentOn pleasure, haunt the capital, and thusTo all the violence of lawless handsResign the scenes their presence might protect.Authority herself not seldom sleeps,Though resident, and witness of the wrong.The plump convivial parson often bearsThe magisterial sword in vain, and laysHis reverence and his worship both to restOn the same cushion of habitual sloth.Perhaps timidity restrains his arm;When he should strike he trembles, and sets free,Himself enslaved by terror of the band,The audacious convict, whom he dares not bind.Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure,He too may have his vice, and sometimes proveLess dainty than becomes his grave outsideIn lucrative concerns. Examine wellHis milk-white hand; the palm is hardly clean—But here and there an ugly smutch appears.Foh! ‘twas a bribe that left it: he has touch’dCorruption! Whoso seeks an audit herePropitious, pays his tribute, game or fish,Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds.

But faster far, and more than all the rest,A noble cause, which none who bears a sparkOf public virtue, ever wish’d removed,Works the deplored and mischievous effect.‘Tis universal soldiership has stabb’dThe heart of merit in the meaner class.Arms, through the vanity and brainless rageOf those that bear them, in whatever cause,Seem most at variance with all moral good,And incompatible with serious thought.The clown, the child of nature, without guile,Blest with an infant’s ignorance of allBut his own simple pleasures; now and thenA wrestling-match, a foot-race, or a fair;Is balloted, and trembles at the news:Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swearsA bible-oath to be whate’er they please,To do he knows not what. The task perform’d,That instant he becomes the serjeant’s care,His pupil, and his torment, and his jest.His awkward gait, his introverted toes,Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks,Procure him many a curse. By slow degreesUnapt to learn, and form’d of stubborn stuff,He yet by slow degrees puts off himself,Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well:He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk;He steps right onward, martial in his air,His form, and movement; is as smart aboveAs meal and larded locks can make him; wearsHis hat, or his plumed helmet, with a grace;And, his three years of heroship expired,Returns indignant to the slighted plough.He hates the field, in which no fife or drumAttends him; drives his cattle to a march;And sighs for the smart comrades he has left.‘Twere well if his exterior change were all—But with his clumsy port the wretch has lostHis ignorance and harmless manners too.To swear, to game, to drink; to show at home,By lewdness, idleness, and Sabbath beach,The great proficiency he made abroad;To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends;To break some maiden’s and his mother’s heart;To be a pest where he was useful once;Are his sole aim, and all his glory now.

Man in society is like a flowerBlown in its native bed: ‘tis there aloneHis faculties, expanded in full bloom,Shine out; there only reach their proper use.But man, associated and leagued with manBy regal warrant, or self-join’d by bondFor interest sake, or swarming into clansBeneath one head for purposes of war,Like flowers selected from the rest, and boundAnd bundled close to fill some crowded vase,Fades rapidly, and, by compression marr’d,Contracts defilement not to be endured.Hence charter’d burghs are such public plagues;And burghers, men immaculate perhapsIn all their private functions, once combined,Become a loathsome body, only fitFor dissolution, hurtful to the main.Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sinAgainst the charities of domestic life,Incorporated, seem at once to loseTheir nature; and, disclaiming all regardFor mercy and the common rights of man,Build factories with blood, conducting tradeAt the sword’s point, and dyeing the white robeOf innocent commercial Justice red.Hence too the field of glory, as the worldMisdeems it, dazzled by its bright array,With all its majesty of thundering pomp,Enchanting music and immortal wreaths,Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taughtOn principle, where foppery atones For folly, gallantry for every vice.

But slighted as it is, and by the greatAbandon’d, and, which still I more regret,Infected with the manners and the modesIt knew not once, the country wins me sill.I never framed a wish, or form’d a plan,That flatter’d me with hopes of earthly bliss,But there I laid the scene. There early stray’dMy fancy, ere yet liberty of choiceHad found me, or the hope of being free.My very dreams were rural; rural tooThe firstborn efforts of my youthful muse,Sportive, and jingling her poetic bellsEre yet her ear was mistress of their powers.No bard could please me but whose lyre was tunedTo Nature’s praises. Heroes and their featsFatigued me, never weary of the pipeOf Tityrus, assembling, as he sang,The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech.Then Milton had indeed a poet’s charms:New to my taste, his Paradise surpass’dThe struggling efforts of my boyish tongueTo speak its excellence. I danced for joy.I marvell’d much that, at so ripe an ageAs twice seven years, his beauties had then firstEngaged my wonder; and admiring still,And still admiring, with regret supposedThe joy half lost, because not sooner found.There too, enamour’d of the life I loved,Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuitDetermined, and possessing it at last,With transports, such as favour’d lovers feel,I studied, prized, and wish’d that I had knownIngenious Cowley! and, though now reclaim’dBy modern lights from an erroneous taste,I cannot but lament thy splendid witEntangled in the cobwebs of the schools.I still revere thee, courtly though retired;Though stretch’d at ease in Chertsey’s silent bowers,Not unemployed; and finding rich amendsFor a lost world in solitude and verse.‘Tis born with all: the love of Nature’s worksIs an ingredient in the compound man,Infused at the creation of the kind.And, though the Almighty Maker has throughoutDiscriminated each from each, by strokesAnd touches of his hand, with so much artDiversified, that two were never foundTwins at all points—yet this obtains in all,That all discern a beauty in his works,And all can taste them: minds that have been form’dAnd tutor’d, with a relish more exact,But none without some relish, none unmoved.It is a flame that dies not even thereWhere nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds,Nor habits of luxurious city life,Whatever else they smother of true worthIn human bosoms, quench it or abate.The villas with which London stands begirtLike a swarth Indian with his belt of beadsProve it. A breath of unadulterate air,The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheerThe citizen, and brace his languid frame!E’en in the stifling bosom of the townA garden, in which nothing thrives, has charmsThat soothe the rich possessor; much consoled, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the wellHe cultivates. These serve him with a hint That Nature lives; that sight-refreshing greenIs still the livery she delights to wear,Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole.What are the casements lined with creeping herbs,The prouder sashes fronted with a rangeOf orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,The Frenchman’s darling? are they not all proofsThat man, immured in cities, still retainsHis inborn inextinguishable thirstOf rural scenes, compensating his lossBy supplemental shifts, the best he may,The most unfurnish’d with the means of life,And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds,To range the fields and treat their lungs with air,Yet feel the burning instinct: over head Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick,And water’d duly. There the pitcher stands,A fragment, and the spoutless teapot there;Sad witnesses how close-pent man regretsThe country, with what ardour he contrivesA peep at Nature, when he can no more.

Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease,And contemplation, heart-consoling joys,And harmless pleasures, in the throng’d abodeOf multitudes unknown! hail, rural life!Address himself who will to the pursuit Of honours, or emolument, or fame;I shall not add myself to such a chase,Thwart his attempts, or envy his success.Some must be great. Great offices will haveGreat talents. And God gives to every manThe virtue, temper, understanding, taste,That lifts him into life, and lets him fallJust in the niche he was ordain’d to fill.To the deliverer of an injured landHe gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heartTo feel, and courage to redress her wrongs;To monarchs dignity; to judges sense;To artists ingenuity and skill;To me an unambitious mind, contentIn the low vale of life, that early feltA wish for ease and leisure, and ere longFound here that leisure and that ease I wish’d.

Retirement

Hackney'd in business, wearied at that oar,Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no more,But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low,All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego;The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade,Pants for the refuge of some rural shade,Where, all his long anxieties forgotAmid the charms of a sequester'd spot,Or recollected only to gild o'erAnd add a smile to what was sweet before,He may possess the joys he thinks he sees,Lay his old age upon the lap of ease,Improve the remnant of his wasted span,And, having lived a trifler, die a man.Thus conscience pleads her cause within the breast,Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd,And calls a creature form'd for God alone,For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own,Calls him away from selfish ends and aims,From what debilitates and what inflames,From cities humming with a restless crowd,Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,Whose highest praise is that they live in vain,The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain,Where works of man are cluster'd close around,And works of God are hardly to be found,To regions where, in spite of sin and woe,Traces of Eden are still seen below,Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove,Remind him of his Maker’s power and love.'Tis well, if look’d for at so late a day,In the last scene of such a senseless play,True wisdom will attend his feeble call,And grace his action ere the curtain fall.Souls, that have long despised their heavenly birth,Their wishes all impregnated with earth,For threescore years employ’d with ceaseless care,In catching smoke, and feeding upon air,Conversant only with the ways of men,Rarely redeem the short remaining ten.Inveterate habits choke the unfruitful heart,Their fibres penetrate its tenderest part,And, draining its nutritious power to feedTheir noxious growth, starve every better seed.Happy, if full of days—but happier far,If, ere we yet discern life’s evening star,Sick of the service of a world that feedsIts patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds,We can escape from custom’s idiot sway,To serve the sovereign we were born to obey.Then sweet to muse upon his skill display’d (Infinite skill) in all that he has made!To trace in nature’s most minute designThe signature and stamp of power divine,Contrivance intricate, express’d with ease,Where unassisted sight no beauty sees,The shapely limb and lubricated joint,Within the small dimensions of a point,Muscle and nerve miraculously spun,His mighty work, who speaks and it is done,The invisible in things scarce seen reveal’d,To whom an atom is an ample field:To wonder at a thousand insect forms,These hatch’d, and those resuscitated worms.New life ordain’d, and brighter scenes to share,Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air,Whose shape would make them, had they bulk and size,More hideous foes than fancy can devise;With helmet-heads and dragon-scales adorn’d,The mighty myriads, now securely scorn’d,Would mock the majesty of man’s high birth,Despise his bulwarks, and unpeople earth:Then with a glance of fancy to survey,Far as the faculty can stretch away,Ten thousand rivers pour’d at his command,From urns that never fail, through every land;These like a deluge with impetuous force,Those winding modestly a silent course;The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales;Seas, on which every nation spreads her sails;The sun, a world whence other worlds drink light,The crescent moon, the diadem of night:Stars countless, each in his appointed place,Fast anchor’d in the deep abyss of space—At such a sight to catch the poet’s flame,And with a rapture like his own exclaimThese are thy glorious works, thou Source of Good,How dimly seen, how faintly understood!Thine, and upheld by thy paternal care,This universal frame, thus wondrous fair;Thy power divine, and bounty beyond thought,Adored and praised in all that thou has wrought.Absorb’d in that immensity I see,I shrink abased, and yet aspire to thee;Instruct me, guide me to that heavenly dayThy words more clearly than thy works display,That, while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine,I may resemble thee, and call thee mine.O blest proficiency! surpassing allThat men erroneously their glory call,The recompence that arts or arms can yield,The bar, the senate, or the tented field.Compared with this sublimest life below,Ye kings and rulers, what have courts to shew?Thus studied, used, and consecrated thus,On earth what is, seems form’d indeed for us;Not as the plaything of a froward child,Fretful unless diverted and beguiled,Much less to feed and fan the fatal firesOf pride, ambition, or impure desires;But as a scale, by which the soul ascendsFrom mighty means to more important ends,Securely, though by steps but rarely trod,Mounts from inferior beings up to God,And sees, by no fallacious light or dim,Earth made for man, and man himself for him.Not that I mean to approve, or would enforce,A superstitious and monastic course:Truth is not local, God alike pervadesAnd fills the world of traffic and the shades,And may be fear’d amidst the busiest scenes,Or scorn’d where business never intervenes.But, ‘tis not easy, with a mind like ours,Conscious of weakness in its noblest powers,And in a world where, other ills apart,The roving eye misleads the careless heart,To limit thought, by nature prone to strayWherever freakish fancy points the way;To bid the pleadings of self-love be still,Resign our own and seek our Maker’s will;To spread the page of Scripture, and compareOur conduct with the laws engraven there;To measure all that passes in the breast,Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test;To dive into the secret deeps within,To spare no passion and no favourite sin,And search the themes, important above all,Ourselves, and our recovery from our fall.But leisure, silence, and a mind releasedFrom anxious thoughts how wealth may be increased,How to secure, in some propitious hourThe point of interest or the post of power,A soul serene, and equally retiredFrom objects too much dreaded or desired,Safe from the clamours of perverse dispute,At least are friendly to the great pursuit.Opening the map of God’s extensive plan,We find a little isle, this life of man;Eternity’s unknown expanse appearsCircling around and limiting his years.The busy race examine and exploreEach creek and cavern of the dangerous shore,With care collect what in their eyes excels,Some shining pebbles, and some weeds and shells;Thus laden, dream that they are rich and great,And happiest he that groans beneath his weight.The waves o’ertake them in their serious play,And every hour sweeps multitudes away;They shriek and sink, survivors start and weep,Pursue their sport, and follow to the deep.A few forsake the throng; with lifted eyesAsk wealth of Heaven, and gain a real prize,Truth, wisdom, grace, and peace like that above,Seal’d with his signet whom they serve and love;Scorn’d by the rest, with patient hope they waitA kind release from their imperfect state,And unregretted are soon snatch’d awayFrom scenes of sorrow into glorious day.Nor these alone prefer a life recluse,Who seek retirement for its proper use;The love of change, that lives in every breast,Genius, and temper, and desire of rest,Discordant motives in one centre meet,And each inclines its votary to retreat.Some minds by nature are averse to noise,And hate the tumult half the world enjoys,The lure of avarice, or the pompous prizeThat courts display before ambitious eyes;The fruits that hang on pleasure’s flowery stem,Whate’er enchants them, are no snares to them.To them the deep recess of dusky groves,Or forest, where the deer securely roves, The fall of waters, and the song of birds,And hills that echo to the distant herds,Are luxuries excelling all the glareThe world can boast, and her chief favourites share.With eager step, and carelessly array’d,For such a cause the poet seeks the shade,From all he sees he catches new delight,Pleased Fancy claps her pinions at the sight,The rising or the setting orb of day,The clouds that flit, or slowly float away,Nature in all the various shapes she wears,Frowning in storms, or breathing gentle airs,The snowy robe her wintry state assumes,Her summer heats, her fruits, and her perfumes,All, all alike transport the glowing bard,Success in rhyme his glory and reward.O Nature! whose Elysian scenes discloseHis bright perfections at whose word they rose,Next to that power who form’d thee, and sustains,Be thou the great inspirer of my strains.Still, as I touch the lyre, do thou expandThy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand,That I may catch a fire but rarely known,Give useful light, though I should miss renown.And, poring on thy page, whose every lineBears proof of an intelligence divine,May feel a heart enrich’d by what it pays,That builds its glory on its Maker’s praise.Woe to the man whose wit disclaims its use,Glittering in vain, or only to seduce,Who studies nature with a wanton eye,Admires the work, but slips the lesson by;His hours of leisure and recess employsIn drawing pictures of forbidden joys,Retires to blazon his own worthless name,Or shoot the careless with a surer aim.The lover too shuns business and alarms,Tender idolater of absent charms.Saints offer nothing in their warmest prayersThat he devotes not with a zeal like theirs;‘Tis consecration of his heart, soul, time,And every thought that wanders is a crime.In sighs he worships his supremely fair,And weeps a sad libation in despair;Adores a creature, and, devout in vain,Wins in return an answer of disdain.As woodbine weds the plant within her reach,Rough elm, or smooth-grain’d ash, or glossy beechIn spiral rings ascends the trunk, and laysHer golden tassels on the leafy sprays,But does a mischief while she lends a grace,Straitening its growth by such a strict embrace;So love, that clings around the noblest minds,Forbids the advancement of the soul he binds;The suitor’s air, indeed, he soon improves,And forms it to the taste of her he loves,Teaches his eyes a language, and no lessRefines his speech, and fashions his address;But farewell promises of happier fruits,Manly designs, and learning’s grave pursuits;Girt with a chain he cannot wish to break,His only bliss is sorrow for her sake;Who will may pant for glory and excel,Her smile his aim, all higher aims farewell!Thyrsis, Alexis, or whatever nameMay least offend against so pure a flame,Though sage advice of friends the most sincereSounds harshly in so delicate an ear,And lovers, of all creatures, tame or wild,Can least brook management, however mild,Yet let a poet (poetry disarmsThe fiercest animals with magic charms)Risk an intrusion on thy pensive mood,And woo and win thee to thy proper good.Pastoral images and still retreats,Umbrageous walks and solitary seats,Sweet birds in concert with harmonious streams,Soft airs, nocturnal vigils, and day-dreams,Are all enchantments in a case like thine,Conspire against thy peace with one design,Soothe thee to make thee but a surer prey,And feed the fire that wastes thy powers away.Up—God has form’d thee with a wiser view,Not to be led in chains, but to subdue;Calls thee to cope with enemies, and firstPoints out a conflict with thyself, the worst.Woman, indeed, a gift he would bestowWhen he design’d a Paradise below,The richest earthly boon his hands afford,Deserves to be beloved, but not adored.Post away swiftly to more active scenes,Collect the scatter’d truth that study gleans,Mix with the world, but with its wiser part,No longer give an image all thine heart;Its empire is not hers, nor is it thine,‘Tis God’s just claim, prerogative divine.Virtuous and faithful Heberden, whose skillAttempts no task it cannot well fulfil,Gives melancholy up to nature’s care,And sends the patient into purer air.Look where he comes—in this embower’d alcoveStand close conceal’d, and see a statue move:Lips busy, and eyes fix’d, foot falling slow,Arms hanging idly down, hands clasp’d below,Interpret to the marking eye distress,Such as its symptoms can alone express.That tongue is silent now; that silent tongueCould argue once, could jest, or join the song,Could give advice, could censure or commend,Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend.Renounced alike its office and its sport,Its brisker and its graver strains fall short;Both fail beneath a fever’s secret sway,And like a summer-brook are past away.This is a sight for pity to peruse,Till she resembles faintly what she views,Till sympathy contract a kindred pain,Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain.This, of all maladies that man infest,Claims most compassion, and receives the least;Job felt it, when he groan’d beneath the rodAnd the barb’d arrows of a frowning God;And such emollients as his friends could spare,Friends such as his for modern Jobs prepare.Blest, rather curst, with hearts that never feel,Kept snug in caskets of close-hammer’d steel,With mouths made only to grin wide and eat,And minds that deem derided pain a treat,With limbs of British oak, and nerves of wire,And wit that puppet prompters might inspire,Their sovereign nostrum is a clumsy jokeOn pangs enforced with God’s severest stroke.But, with a soul that ever felt the stingOf sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing:Not to molest, or irritate, or raiseA laugh at his expense, is slender praise;He that has not usurp’d the name of manDoes all, and deems too little all, he can,To assuage the throbbings of the fester’d part,And staunch the bleedings of a broken heart.‘Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose,Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes;Man is a harp, whose chords elude the sight,Each yielding harmony disposed aright;The screws reversed (a task which, if he please,God in a moment executes with ease),Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose,Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use.Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fairAs ever recompensed the peasant’s care,Nor soft declivities with tufted hills,Nor view of waters turning busy mills,Parks in which art preceptress nature weds,Nor gardens interspersed with flowery beds,Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming groves,And waft it to the mourner as he roves,Can call up life into his faded eye,That passes all he sees unheeded by;No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels,No cure for such, till God who makes them heals.And thou, sad sufferer under nameless illThat yields not to the touch of human skill,Improve the kind occasion, understandA Father’s frown, and kiss his chastening hand.To thee the day-spring, and the blaze of noon,The purple evening and resplendent moon,The stars that, sprinkled o’er the vault of night,Seem drops descending in a shower of light,Shine not, or undesired and hated shine,Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine:Yet seek him, in his favour life is found,All bliss beside—a shadow or a sound:Then heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull earth,Shall seem to start into a second birth;Nature, assuming a more lovely face,Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace,Shall be despised and overlook’d no more,Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before,Impart to things inanimate a voice,And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice;The sound shall run along the winding vales,And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails.Ye groves (the statesman at his desk exclaims,Sick of a thousand disappointed aims),My patrimonial treasure and my pride,Beneath your shades your grey possessor hide,Receive me, languishing for that reposeThe servant of the public never knows.Ye saw me once (ah, those regretted days,When boyish innocence was all my praise!)Hour after hour delightfully allotTo studies then familiar, since forgot,And cultivate a taste for ancient song,Catching its ardour as I mused along;Nor seldom, as propitious Heaven might send,What once I valued and could boast, a friend,Were witnesses how cordially I press’dHis undissembling virtue to my breast;Receive me now, not uncorrupt as then,Nor guiltless of corrupting other men,But versed in arts that, while they seem to stayA falling empire, hasten its decay.To the fair haven of my native home,The wreck of what I was, fatigued, I come;For once I can approve the patriot’s voice,And make the course he recommends my choice:We meet at last in one sincere desire,His wish and mine both prompt me to retire.‘Tis done—he steps into the welcome chaise,Lolls at his ease behind four handsome bays,That whirl away from business and debateThe disencumber’d Atlas of the state.Ask not the boy, who, when the breeze of mornFirst shakes the glittering drops from every thorn,Unfolds his flock, then under bank or bushSits linking cherry-stones, or platting rush,How fair is Freedom?—he was always free:To carve his rustic name upon a tree,To snare the mole, or with ill-fashion’d hookTo draw the incautious minnow from the brook,Are life’s prime pleasures in his simple view,His flock the chief concern he ever knew;She shines but little in his heedless eyes,The good we never miss we rarely prize:But ask the noble drudge in state affairs,Escaped from office and its constant cares,What charms he sees in Freedom’s smile express’d, In freedom lost so long, now repossess’d;The tongue whose strains were cogent as commands,Revered at home, and felt in foreign lands,Shall own itself a stammerer in that cause,Or plead its silence as its best applause.He knows indeed that, whether dress’d or rude,Wild without art, or artfully subdued,Nature in every form inspires delight,But never mark’d her with so just a sight.Her hedge-row shrubs, a variegated store,With woodbine and wild roses mantled o’er,Green balks and furrow’d lands, the stream that spreadsIts cooling vapour o’er the dewy meads,Downs, that almost escape the inquiring eye,That melt and fade into the distant sky,Beauties he lately slighted as he pass’d,Seem all created since he travell’d last.Master of all the enjoyments he design’d,No rough annoyance rankling in his mind,What early philosophic hours he keeps,How regular his meals, how sound he sleeps!Not sounder he that on the mainmast head,While morning kindles with a windy red,Begins a long look-out for distant land,Nor quits till evening watch his giddy stand,Then, swift descending with a seaman’s haste,Slips to his hammock, and forgets the blast.He chooses company, but not the squire’s,Whose wit is rudeness, whose good-breeding tires,Nor yet the parson’s, who would gladly come,Obsequious when abroad, though proud at home;Nor can he much affect the neighbouring peer,Whose toe of emulation treads too near;But wisely seeks a more convenient friend,With whom, dismissing forms, he may unbend.A man, whom marks of condescending graceTeach, while they flatter him, his proper place;Who comes when call’d, and at a word withdraws,Speaks with reserve, and listens with applause;Some plain mechanic, who, without pretenceTo birth or wit, nor gives nor takes offence;On whom he rest well pleased his weary powers,And talks and laughs away his vacant hours.The tide of life, swift always in its course,May run in cities with a brisker force,But nowhere with a current so serene,Or half so clear, as in the rural scene.Yet how fallacious is all earthly bliss,What obvious truths the wisest heads may miss!Some pleasures live a month, and some a year,But short the date of all we gather here;No happiness is felt, except the true,That does not charm thee more for being new.This observation, as it chanced, not made,Or, if the thought occurr’d, not duly weigh’d,He sighs—for after all by slow degreesThe spot he loved has lost the power to please;To cross his ambling pony day by daySeems at the best but dreaming life away;The prospect, such as might enchant despair,He views it not, or sees no beauty there;With aching heart, and discontented looks,Returns at noon to billiards or to books,But feels, while grasping at his faded joys,A secret thirst of his renounced employs.He chides the tardiness of every post,Pants to be told of battles won or lost,Blames his own indolence, observes, though late,‘Tis criminal to leave a sinking state,Flies to the levee, and, received with grace,Kneels, kisses hands, and shines again in place.Suburban villas, highway-side retreats,That dread the encroachment of our growing streets,Tight boxes neatly sash’d, and in a blazeWith all a July sun’s collected rays,Delight the citizen, who, gasping there,Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air.O sweet retirement! who would balk the thoughtThat could afford retirement or could not?‘Tis such an easy walk, so smooth and straight,The second milestone fronts the garden gate;A step if fair, and, if a shower approach,They find safe shelter in the next stage-coach.There, prison’d in a parlour snug and small,Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall,The man of business and his friends compress’d,Forget their labours, and yet find no rest;But still ‘tis rural—trees are to be seenFrom every window, and the fields are green;Ducks paddle in the pond before the door,And what could a remoter scene shew more?A sense of elegance we rarely findThe portion of a mean or vulgar mind,And ignorance of better things makes man,Who cannot much, rejoice in what he can;And he, that deems his leisure well bestow’d,In contemplation of a turnpike-road,Is occupied as well, employs his hoursAs wisely, and as much improves his powers,As he that slumbers in pavilions gracedWith all the charms of an accomplish’d taste.Yet hence, alas! insolvencies; and henceThe unpitied victim of ill-judged expense,From all his wearisome engagements freed,Shakes hands with business, and retires indeed.Your prudent grandmammas, ye modern belles,Content with Bristol, Bath, and Tunbridge Wells,When health required it, would consent to roam,Else more attach’d to pleasures found at home;But now alike, gay widow, virgin, wife, Ingenious to diversify dull life,In coaches, chaises, caravans, and hoys,Fly to the coast for daily, nightly joys,And all, impatient of dry land, agreeWith one consent to rush into the sea.Ocean exhibits, fathomless and broad,Much of the power and majesty of God.He swathes about the swelling of the deep,That shines and rests, as infants smile and sleep;Vast as it is, it answers as it flowsThe breathings of the lightest air that blows;Curling and whitening over all the waste,The rising waves obey the increasing blast,Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars,Thunder and flash upon the steadfast shores,Till he that rides the whirlwind checks the rein,Then all the world of waters sleeps again.Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads,Now in the floods, now panting in the meads,Votaries of pleasure still, where’er she dwells,Near barren rocks, in palaces, or cells,Oh, grant a poet leave to recommend(A poet fond of nature, and your friend)Her slighted works to your admiring view;Her works must needs excel, who fashion’d you.Would ye, when rambling in your morning ride,With some unmeaning coxcomb at your side,Condemn the prattler for his idle pains,To waste unheard the music of his strains,And, deaf to all the impertinence of tongue,That, while it courts, affronts and does you wrong,Mark well the finish’d plan without a fault, The seas globose and huge, the o’er-arching vault,Earth’s millions daily fed, a world employ’dIn gathering plenty yet to be enjoy’d,Till gratitude grew vocal in the praiseOf God, beneficent in all his ways;Graced with such wisdom, how would beauty shine!Ye want but that to seem indeed divine.Anticipated rents and bills unpaid,Force many a shining youth into the shade,Not to redeem his time, but his estate,And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate.There, hid in loathed obscurity, removedFrom pleasures left, but never more beloved,He just endures, and with a sickly spleenSighs o’er the beauties of the charming scene.Nature indeed looks prettily in rhyme;Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime:The warblings of the blackbird, clear and strong,Are musical enough in Thomson’s song;And Cobham’s groves, and Windsor’s green retreats,When Pope describes them, have a thousand sweets;He likes the country, but in truth must own,Most likes it when he studies it in town.Poor Jack—no matter who—for when I blame,I pity, and must therefore sink the name,Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course,And always, ere he mounted, kiss’d his horse.The estate, his sires had own’d in ancient years,Was quickly distanced, match’d against a peer’s.Jack vanish’d, was regretted, and forgot;‘Tis wild good-nature’s never failing lot.At length, when all had long supposed him dead,By cold submersion, razor, rope, or lead,My lord, alighting at his usual place,The Crown, took notice of an ostler’s face.Jack knew his friend, but hoped in that disguiseHe might escape the most observing eyes,And whistling, as if unconcern’d and gay,Curried his nag and look’d another way;Convinced at last, upon a nearer view,‘Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew,O’erwhelm’d at once with wonder, grief, and joy,He press’d him much to quit his base employ;His countenance, his purse, his heart, his hand,Influence and power, were all at his command:Peers are not always generous as well-bred,But Granby was, meant truly what he said.Jack bow’d, and was obliged—confess’d ‘twas strange,That so retired he should not wish a change,But knew no medium between guzzling beer,And his old stint—three thousand pounds a year.Thus some retire to nourish hopeless woe;Some seeking happiness not found below;Some to comply with humour, and a mindTo social scenes by nature disinclined;Some sway’d by fashion, some by deep disgust;Some self-impoverish’d, and because they must;But few, that court Retirement, are awareOf half the toils they must encounter there.Lucrative offices are seldom lostFor want of powers proportion’d to the post:Give e’en a dunce the employment he desires,And he soon finds the talents it requires;A business with an income at its heelsFurnishes always oil for its own wheels.But in his arduous enterprise to closeHis active years with indolent repose,He finds the labours of that state exceedHis utmost faculties, severe indeed.‘Tis easy to resign a toilsome place,But not to manage leisure with a grace;Absence of occupation is not rest,A mind quite vacant is a mind distress’d,The veteran steed, excused his task at length,In kind compassion of his failing strength,And turn’d into the park or mead to graze,Exempt from future service all his days,There feels a pleasure perfect in its kind,Ranges at liberty, and snuffs the wind:But when his lord would quit the busy road,To taste a joy like that he has bestow’d,He proves, less happy than his favour’d brute,A life of ease a difficult pursuit.Thought, to the man that never thinks, may seemAs natural as when asleep to dream:But reveries (for human minds will act),Specious in show, impossible in fact,Those flimsy webs, that break as soon as wrought,Attain not to the dignity of thought:Nor yet the swarms that occupy the brain,Where dreams of dress, intrigue, and pleasure reign;Nor such as useless conversation breeds,Or lust engenders, and indulgence feeds.Whence, and what are we? to what end ordain’d?What means the drama by the world sustain’d?Business or vain amusement, care or mirth,Divide the frail inhabitants of earth.Is duty a mere sport, or an employ?Life an entrusted talent, or a toy?Is there, as reason, conscience, Scripture say,Cause to provide for a great future day,When, earth’s assign’d duration at an end,Man shall be summon’d, and the dead attend?The trumpet—will it sound? the curtain rise?And shew the august tribunal of the skies,Where no prevarication shall avail,Where eloquence and artifice shall fail,The pride of arrogant distinctions fall,And conscience and our conduct judge us all?Pardon me, ye that give the midnight oilTo learned cares or philosophic toil;Though I revere your honourable names,Your useful labours, and important aims,And hold the world indebted to your aid,Enrich’d with the discoveries ye have made;Yet let me stand excused, if I esteemA mind employ’d on so sublime a theme,Pushing her bold inquiry to the dateAnd outline of the present transient state,And, after poising her adventurous wings,Settling at last upon eternal things,Far more intelligent, and better taughtThe strenuous use of profitable thought,Than ye, when happiest, and enlighten’d most,And highest in renown, can justly boast.A mind unnerved, or indisposed to bearThe weight of subjects worthiest of her care,Whatever hopes a change of scene inspires,Must change her nature, or in vain retires.An idler is a watch that wants both hands;As useless if it goes as when it stands. Books, therefore, not the scandal of the shelves,In which lewd sensualists print out themselves;Nor those, in which the stage gives vice a blow,With what success let modern manners shew;Nor his who, for the bane of thousands born,Built God a church, and laugh’d his Word to scorn,Skilful alike to seem devout and just,And stab religion with a sly side-thrust;Nor those of learn’d philologists, who chaseA panting syllable through time and space,Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark,To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah’s ark;But such as learning, without false pretence,The friend of truth, the associate of sound sense,And such as, in the zeal of good design,Strong judgment labouring in the Scripture mine,All such as manly and great souls produce,Worthy to live, and of eternal use:Behold in these what leisure hours demand,Amusement and true knowledge hand in hand.Luxury gives the mind a childish cast,And, while she polishes, perverts the taste;Habits of close attention, thinking heads,Become more rare as dissipation spreads,Till authors hear at length one general cry,Tickle and entertain us, or we die.The loud demand, from year to year the same,Beggars invention, and makes fancy lame;Till farce itself, most mournfully jejune,Calls for the kind assistance of a tune;And novels (witness every month’s review)Belie their name, and offer nothing new.The mind, relaxing into needful sport,Should turn to writers of an abler sort,Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style,Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile.Friends (for I cannot stint, as some have done,Too rigid in my view, that name to one;Though one, I grant it, in the generous breastWill stand advanced a step above the rest;Flowers by that name promiscuously we call,But one, the rose, the regent of them all)—Friends, not adopted with a schoolboy’s haste,But chosen with a nice discerning taste,Well born, well disciplined, who, placed apartFrom vulgar minds, have honour much at heart,And, though the world may think the ingredients odd,The love of virtue, and the fear of God!Such friends prevent what else would soon succeed,A temper rustic as the life we lead,And keep the polish of the manners clean,As theirs who bustle in the busiest scene;For solitude, however some may rave,Seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave,A sepulchre, in which the living lie,Where all good qualities grow sick and die.I praise the Frenchman, his remark was shrewd,How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude!But grant me still a friend in my retreat,Whom I may whisper—Solitude is sweet.Yet neither these delights, nor aught beside,That appetite can ask, or wealth provide,Can save us always from a tedious day,Or shine the dulness of still life away;Divine communion, carefully enjoy’d,Or sought with energy, must fill the void.Oh, sacred art! to which alone life owesIts happiest seasons, and a peaceful close,Scorn’d in a world, indebted to that scornFor evils daily felt and hardly borne,Not knowing thee, we reap, with bleeding hands,Flowers of rank odour upon thorny lands,And, while experience cautions us in vain,Grasp seeming happiness, and find it pain.Despondence, self-deserted in her grief,Lost by abandoning her own relief,Murmuring and ungrateful discontent,That scorns afflictions mercifully meant,Those humours, tart as wines upon the fret,Which idleness and weariness beget;These, and a thousand plagues that haunt the breast,Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest,Divine communion chases, as the dayDrives to their dens the obedient beasts of prey.See Judah’s promised king, bereft of all,Driven out an exile from the face of Saul,To distant caves the lonely wanderer flies,To seek that peace a tyrant’s frown denies.Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice,Hear him o’erwhelm’d with sorrow, yet rejoice;No womanish or wailing grief has part,No, not a moment, in his royal heart;‘Tis manly music, such as martyrs make,Suffering with gladness for a Saviour’s sake.His soul exults, hope animates his lays,The sense of mercy kindles into praise,And wilds, familiar with a lion’s roar,Ring with ecstatic sounds unheard before;‘Tis love like his that can alone defeat The foes of man, or make a desert sweet.Religion does not censure or excludeUnnumber’d pleasures harmlessly pursued;To study culture, and with artful toilTo meliorate and tame the stubborn soil;To give dissimilar yet fruitful landsThe grain, or herb, or plant that each demands;To cherish virtue in an humble state,And share the joys your bounty may create;To mark the matchless workings of the powerThat shuts within its seed the future flower,Bids these in elegance of form excel,In colour these, and those delight the smell,Sends Nature forth the daughter of the skies,To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes;To teach the canvas innocent deceit, Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet—These, these are arts pursued without a crime,That leave no stain upon the wing of time.Me poetry (or, rather, notes that aimFeebly and vainly at poetic fame)Employs, shut out from more important views,Fast by the banks of the slow-winding Ouse;Content if, thus sequester’d, I may raiseA monitor’s, though not a poet’s, praise,And, while I teach an art too little known,To close life wisely, may not waste my own.

The Task: Book Ii. -- The Time-Piece

Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness,Some boundless contiguity of shade,Where rumour of oppression and deceit,Of unsuccessful or successful warMight never reach me more! My ear is pained,My soul is sick with every day's reportOf wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart,It does not feel for man. The natural bondOf brotherhood is severed as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire.He finds his fellow guilty of a skinNot coloured like his own, and having powerTo enforce the wrong, for such a worthy causeDooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.Lands intersected by a narrow frithAbhor each other. Mountains interposed,Make enemies of nations who had elseLike kindred drops been mingled into one.Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys;And worse than all, and most to be deploredAs human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweatWith stripes, that mercy with a bleeding heartWeeps when she sees inflicted on a beast.Then what is man? And what man seeing this,And having human feelings, does not blushAnd hang his head, to think himself a man?I would not have a slave to till my ground,To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,And tremble when I wake, for all the wealthThat sinews bought and sold have ever earned. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price,I had much rather be myself the slaveAnd wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.We have no slaves at home. - Then why abroad?And they themselves, once ferried o'er the waveThat parts us, are emancipate and loosed.Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungsReceive our air, that moment they are free,They touch our country and their shackles fall.That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proudAnd jealous of the blessing. Spread it then,And let it circulate through every veinOf all your empire! that where Britain's powerIs felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.

Sure there is need of social intercourse,Benevolence and peace and mutual aidBetween the nations, in a world that seemsTo toll the death-bell of its own decease,And by the voice of all its elementsTo preach the general doom. When were the windsLet slip with such a warrant to destroy?When did the waves so haughtily o'erleapTheir ancient barriers, deluging the dry?Fire from beneath, and meteors from abovePortentous, unexampled, unexplained,Have kindled beacons in the skies; and the oldAnd crazy earth has had her shaking fitsMore frequent, and foregone her usual rest.Is it a time to wrangle, when the props And pillars of our planet seem to fail,And nature with a dim and sickly eyeTo wait the close of all? But grant her end More distant, adn that prophecy demandsA longer respite, unaccomplished yet;Still they are frowning signals, and bespeakDispleasure in his breast who smites the earthOr heals it, makes it languish or rejoice.And 'tis but seemly, that where all deserveAnd stand exposed by common peccancy To what no few have felt, there should be peace,And brethren in calamity should love.

Alas for Sicily! rude fragments nowLie scattered where the shapely column stood.Her palaces are dust. In all her streetsThe voice of singing and the sprightly chordAre silent. Revelry and dance and show Suffer a syncope and solemn pause,While God performs upon the trembling stageOf his own works, his dreadful part alone.How does the earth receive him? - with what signsOf gratulation and delight, her king?Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad,Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums,Disclosing paradise where'er he treads?She quakes at his approach. Her hollow wombConceiving thunders, through a thousand deepsAnd fiery caverns roars beneath his foot. The hills move lightly and the mountains smoke,For He has touched them. From the extremest pointOf elevation down into the abyss,His wrath is busy and his frown is felt.The rocks fall headlong and the valleys rise;The rivers die into offensive pools,And charged with putrid verdure, breathe a grossAnd mortal nuisance into all the air.What solid was, by transformation strangeGrows fluid; and the fixed and rooted earthTormented into billows heaves and swells,Or with vortiginous and hideous whirlSucks down its prey insatiable. ImmenseThe tumult and the overthrow, the pangsAnd agonies of human and of bruteMultitudes, fugitive on every side,Migrates uplifted, and with all its soilAlighting in far distant fields, finds outA new possessor, and survives the change.Ocean has caught the frenzy, and upwroughtTo an enormous and o'erbearing height,Not by a mighty wind, but by that voiceWhich winds and waves obey, invades the shoreResistless. Never such a sudden flood,Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge,Possessed an inland scene. Where now the throngThat pressed the beach, and hasty to departLooked to the sea for safety? They are gone,Gone with the refluent wave into the deep,A prince with half his people. Ancient towers,And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenesWhere beauty oft and lettered worth consumeLife in the unproductive shades of death,Fall prone; the pale inhabitants come forth,And happy in their unforeseen releaseFrom all the rigours of restraint, enjoyThe terrors of the day that sets them free.Who then that has thee, would not hold thee fast,Freedom! whom they that lose thee, so regret,That even a judgement making way for thee,Seems in their eyes, a mercy, for thy sake.

Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flameKindled in heaven, that it burns down to earth,And in the furious inquest that it makesOn God's behalf, lays waste his fairest works.The very elements, though each be meantThe minister of man, to serve his wants,Conspire against him. With his breath, he drawsA plague into his blood, and cannot useLife's necessary means, but he must die. Storms rise to o'erwhelm him: or if stormy windsRise not, the waters of the deep shall rise,And needing none assistance of the storm,Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there.The earth shall shake him out of all his holds,Or make his house his grave: nor so content,Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood,And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs.What then, - were they the wicked above all,And we the righteous, whose fast anchored isleMoved not, while theirs was rocked like a light skiff,The sport of every wave? No: none are clear,And none than we more guilty. But where all Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shaftsOr wrath obnoxious, God may choose his mark,May punish, if he please, the less, to warnThe more malignant. If he spared not them,Tremble and be amazed at thine escape,Far guiltier England! lest he spare not thee.

Happy the man who sees a God employ'd In all the good and ill that chequer life!Resolving all events, with their effectsAnd manifold results, into the willAnd arbitration wise of the Supreme.Did not his eye rule all things, and intendThe least of our concerns (since from the least The greatest oft originate); could chanceFind place in his dominion, or disposeOne lawless particle to thwart his plan;Then God might be surprised, and unforeseenContingence might alarm him, and disturbThe smooth and equal course of his affairs.This truth Philosophy, though eagle-eyedIn natur's tendencies, oft overlooks;And, having found his instrument, forgets,Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still,Denies the power that wields it. God proclaimsHis hot displeasure against foolish men,That live an atheist life: involves the heavenIn tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds,And gives them all their fury; bids a plagueKindle a fiery boil upon the skin,And putrefy the breath of blooming Health.He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiendBlows mildew from between his shrivell'd lips,And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines,And desolates a nation at a blast.Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tellsOf homogeneal and discordant springsAnd principles; of causes, how they workBy necessary laws their sure effects;Of action and re-action. He has foundThe source of the disease that nature feels,And bids the world take heart and banish fear.Thou fool! will thy discovery of the causeSuspend the effect, or heal it? Has not GodStill wrought by means since first he made the world?And did he not of old employ his meansTo drown it? What is his creation lessThan a capacious reservoir of meansForm'd for his use, and ready at his will?Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve; ask of him,Or ask of whosoever he has taught;And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all.

England, with all thy faults, I love thee still -My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found,Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy climeBe fickle, and thy year most part deform'd With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost,I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,And fields without a flower, for warmer FranceWith all her vines; nor for Ausonia's grovesOf golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers.To shake thy senate, and from heights sublimeOf patriot eloquence to flash down fireUpon thy foes, was never meant my task:But I can feel thy fortunes, and partakeThy joys and sorrows, with as true a heartAs any thunderer there. And I can feelThy follies too; and with a just disdainFrown at effeminates, whose very looksReflect dishonour on the land I love.How, in the name of soldiership and sense,Should England prosper, when such things, as smoothAnd tender as a girl, all essenced o'erWith odours, and as profligate as sweet;Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,And love when they should fight; when such as thesePresume to lay their hand upon the arkOf her magnificent and awful cause?Time was when it was praise and boast enoughIn every clime, and travel where we might,That we were born her children. Praise enoughTo fill the ambition of a private man,That Chatham's language was his mother tongue,And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.Farewell those honours, and farewell with themThe hope of such hereafter! They have fallen Each in his field of glory; one in arms,And one in council: Wolfe upon the lapOf smiling Victory that moment won,And Chatham heart-sick of his countryâ€™s shame!They made us many soldiers. Chatham stillConsulting England's happiness at home, Secured it by an unforgiving frown,If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, whereâ€™er he fought,Put so much of his heart into his act,That his example had a magnet's force,And all were swift to follow whom all loved.Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such!Or all that we have left is empty talkOf old achievements and despair of new.

Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers floatUpon the wanton breezes. Strew the deckWith lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets,That no rude savour maritime invadeThe nose of nice nobility! Breathe soft,Ye clarionets; and softer still, ye flutes;That winds and waters, lull'd by magic sounds,May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore!True, we have lost an empire - let it pass.True; we may thank the perfidy of France,That pick'd the jewel out of England's crown,With all the cunning of an envious shrew.And let that pass; 'twas but a trick of state!A brave man knows no malice, but at onceForgets in peace the injuries of war,And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace.And, shamed as we have been, to the very beardBraved and defied, and in our own sea provedToo weak for those decisive blows that onceEnsured us mastery there, we yet retainSome small pre-eminence; we justly boastAt least superior jockeyship, and claimThe honours of the turf as all our own!Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek,And show the shame ye might conceal at homeIn foreign eyes! be grooms and win the plate,Where once your nobler fathers won a crown!'Tis generous to communicate your skillTo those that need it! Folly is soon learn'd:And under such preceptors who can fail!

There is a pleasure in poetic painsWhich only poets know. The shifts and turns,The expedients and inventions multiform,To which the mind resorts, in chase of termsThough apt, yet coy, and difficult to win -To arrest the fleeting images that fillThe mirror of the mind, and hold them fast,And force them sit till he has pencill'd offA faithful likeness of the forms he views:Then to dispose his copies with such art,That each may find its most propitious light,And shine by situation, hardly lessThan by the labour and the skill it cost;Are occupations of the poe's mindSo pleasing, and that steal away the thoughtWith such address from themes of sad import,That, lost in his own musings, happy man!He feels the anxieties of life deniedTheir wonted entertainment, all retire.Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such,Or seldom such, the hearers of his song.Fastidious, or else listless, or perhapsAware of nothing arduous in a taskThey never undertook, they little noteHis dangers or escapes, and haply findTheir least amusement where he found the most.But is amusement all? Studious of song,And yet ambitious not to sing in vain,I would not trifle merely, though the worldBe loudest in their praise who do no more.Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay?It may correct a foible, may chastiseThe freaks of fashion, regulate the dress,Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch;But where are its sublimer trophies found?What vice has it subdued? whose heart reclaim'dBy rigour? or whom laugh'd into reform?Alas! Leviathan is not so tamed:Laugh'd at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard, Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales,That fear no discipline of human hands.

The pulpit, therefore (and I name it fill'dWith solemn awe, that bids me well bewareWith what intent I touch that holy thing)-The pulpit (when the satirist has at last,Strutting and vapouring in an empty school,Spent all his force, and made no proselyte)-I say the pulpit (in the sober useOf its legitimate, peculiar powers,)Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand,The most important and effectual guard,Support, and ornament of Virtue's cause.There stands the messenger of truth: there standsThe legate of the skies! His theme divine,His office sacred, his credentials clear.By him the violated law speaks outIts thunders; and by him, in strains as sweetAs angels use, the Gospel whispers peace.He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak,Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart,And, arm'd himself in panoply completeOf heavenly temper, furnishes with armsBright as his own, and trains, by every ruleOf holy discipline, to glorious war,The sacramental host of God's elect!Are all such teachers? - would to heaven all were!But hark - the doctor's voice! - fast wedged betweenTwo empirics he stands, and with swoll'n cheeksInspires the news, his trumpet. Keener farThan all invective is his bold harangue,While through that public organ of reportHe hails the clergy; and, defying shame,Announces to the world his own and theirs!He teaches those to read, whom schools dismiss'd,And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone,And emphasis in score, and gives to prayerThe adagio and andante it demands.He grinds divinity of other daysDown into modern use; transforms old printTo zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyesOf gallery critics by a thousand arts.Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware?Oh, name it not Gath! - it cannot beThat grave and learned clerks should need such aid.He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll,Assuming thus a rank unknown before -Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the church!

I venerate the man whose heart is warm,Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life,Coincident, exhibit lucid proofThat he is honest in the sacred cause;To such I render more than mere respect,Whose actions say that they respect themselves,But loose in morals, and in manners vain,In conversation frivolous, in dressExtreme, at once rapacious and profuse;Frequent in park with lady at his side,Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes;But rare at home, and never at his books,Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card;Constant at routs, familiar with a roundOf ladyships - a stranger to the poor;Ambitious of preferment for its gold,And well prepared, by ignorance and sloth,By infidelity and love of world,To make God's work a sinecure; a slaveTo his own pleasures and his patron's pride:From such apostles, O ye mitred heads,Preserve the church! and lay not careless handsOn skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn.

Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul,Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own -Paul should himself direct me. I would trace His master strokes, and draw from his design.I would express him simple, grave, sincere;In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain,And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste,And natural in gesture; much impress'dHimself, as conscious of his awful charge,And anxious mainly that the flock he feedsMay feel it too; affectionate in look,And tender in address, as well becomesA messenger of grace to guilty men.Behold the picture! Is it like? Like whom?The things that mount the rostrum with a skip,And then skip down again; pronounce a text;Cry hem; and reading what they never wrote,Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their workAnd with a well-bred whisper close the scene!

In man or woman, but far most in man,And most of all in man that ministersAnd serves the altar, in my soul I loatheAll affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn;Object of my implacable disgust.

What! will a man play tricks? will he indulgeA silly fond conceit of his fair form,And just proportion, fashionable mien,And pretty face, in presence of his God?Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes,As with the diamond on his lily hand,And play his brilliant parts before my eyes,When I am hungry for the bread of life?He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shamesHis noble office, and, instead of truth,Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock!Therefore, avaunt all attitude, and stare,And start theatric, practised at the glassI seek divine simplicity in himWho handles things divine; and all besides,Though learn'd with labour, and though much admiredBy curious eyes and judgments ill inform'd,To me is odious as the nasal twangHeard at conventicle, where worthy men,Misled by custom, strain celestial themesThrough the press'd nostril, spectacle-bestrid.Some, decent in demeanour while they preach,Their task perform'd, relapse into themselves;And, having spoken wisely, at the closeGrow wanton, and give proof to every eye,Whoe'er was edified, themselves were not!Forth comes the pocket mirror. First we strokeAn eyebrow; next compose a straggling lock;Then with an air most gracefully perform'dFall back into our seat, extend an arm,And lay it at its ease with gentle care,With handkerchief in hand depending low:The better hand more busy gives the noseIts bergamot, or aids the indebted eye,With opera glass, to watch the moving scene,And recognise the slow-retiring fair.Now this is fulsome; and offends me moreThan in a churchman slovenly neglectAnd rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mindMay be indifferent to her house of clay,And slight the hovel as beneath her care;But how a body so fantastic, trim,And quaint, in its deportment and attire,Can lodge a heavenly mind - demands a doubt.

He that negotiates between God and man,As God's ambassador, the grand concernsOf judgment and of mercy, should bewareOf lightness in his speech. 'Tis pitfulTo court a grin, when you should woo a soul;To break a jest, when pity would inspirPathetic exhortation; and to addressThe skittish fancy with facetious tales,When sent with God's commission to the heart!So did not Paul. Direct me to a quipOr merry turn in all he ever wrote,And I consent you take it for your text,Your only one, till sides and benches fail.No: he was serious in a serious cause,And understood too well the weighty termsThat he had taken in charge. He would not stoopTo conquer those by jocular exploitsWhom truth and soberness assail'd in vain.

O popular applause! what heart of manIs proof against thy sweet seducing charms?The wisest and the best feel urgent needOf all their caution in thy gentlest gales;But, swell'd into a gust - who then, alas!With all his canvas set, and inexpert,And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power?Praise, from the rivell'd lips of toothless, baldDecrepitude, and in the looks of leanAnd craving Poverty, and in the bowRespectful of the smutch'd artificer,Is oft too welcome, and may much disturbThe bias of the purpose. How much more,Pourâ€™d forth by beauty splendid and polite,In language soft as Adoration breathes?Ah, spare your idol! think him human still.Charms he may have, but he has frailties too!Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire.

All truth is from the sempiternal sourceOf light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and RomeDrew from the stream below. More favour'd, weDrink, when we choose it, at the fountain-head.To them it flow'd much mingled and defiledWith hurtful error, prejudice, and dreamsIllusive of philosophy, so call'd, But falsely. Sages after sages stroveIn vain to filter off a crystal draughtPure from the lees, which often more enhancedThe thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bredIntoxication and delirium wild.In vain they push'd inquiry to the birthAnd spring-time of the world; ask'd, Whence is man?Why form'd at all? and wherefore as he is?Where must he find his Maker? with what ritesAdore him? Will he hear, accept, and bless?Or does he sit regardless of his works?Has man within him an immortal seed?Or does the tomb take all? If he surviveHis ashes, where? and in what weal or woe?Knots worthy of solution, which aloneA Deity could solve. Their answers, vagueAnd all at random, fabulous and dark,Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life,Defective and unsanction'd, proved too weakTo bind the roving appetite, and leadBlind nature to a God not yet reveal'd.'Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts,Explains all mysteries, except her own,And so illuminates the path of lifeThat fools discover it, and stray no more.Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir,My man of morals, nurtured in the shadesOf Academus - is this false or true?Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools?If Christ, then why resort at every turnTo Athens or to Rome, for wisdom shortOf man's occasions, when in him resideGrace, knowledge, comfort -an unfathom'd store?How oft, when Paul has served us with a text,Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully preach'd!Men that, if now alive, would sit contentAnd humble learners of a Saviour's worth,Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth,Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too!

And thus it is. - The pastor, either vainBy nature, or by flattery made so, taughtTo gaze at his own splendour, and to exaltAbsurdly, not his office, but himself;Or unenlighten'd, and too proud to learn;Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach;Perverting often, by the stress of lewdAnd loose example, whom he should instruct;Exposes, and holds up to broad disgraceThe noblest function, and discredits muchThe brightest truths that man has ever seen.For ghostly counsel - if it either fallBelow the exigence, or be not back'dWith show of love, at least with hopeful proofOf some sincerity on the giverâ€™s part;Or be dishonour'd in the exterior formAnd mode of its conveyance by such tricksAs move derision, or by foppish airsAnd histrionic mummery, that let downThe pulpit to the level of the stage.Drops from the lips a disregarded thing.The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught,While prejudice in men of stronger mindsTakes deeper root, confirm'd by what they see.A relaxation of religion's holdUpon the roving and untutor'd heartSoon follows, and, the curb of conscience snapp'd,The laity run wild. But do they now?Note their extravagance, and be convinced.

As nations, ignorant of God, contriveA wooden one, so we, no longer taughtBy monitors that mother church supplies,Now make our own. Posterity will ask(If e'er posterity see verse of mine)Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence,What was a monitor in George's days?My very gentle reader, yet unborn,Of whom I needs must augur better things,Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a worldProductive only of a race like ours,A monitor is wood-plank shaven thin.We wear it at our backs. There, closely bracedAnd neatly fitted, it compresses hardThe prominent and most unsightly bones,And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its useSovereign and most effectual to secureA form, not now gymnastic as of yore,From rickets and distortion, else our lot.But, thus admonish'd, we can walk erect.One proof at least of manhood! while the friendSticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge.Our habits, costlier than Lucullus wore,And by caprice as multiplied as his,Just please us while the fashion is at full,But change with every moon. The sycophantWho waits to dress us arbitrates their date;Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye;Finds one ill made, another obsolete,This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived;And, making prize of all that he condemns,With our expenditure defrays his own.Variety's the very spice of life,That gives it all its flavour. We have runThrough every change that Fancy, at the loomExhausted, has had genius to supply;And, studious of mutation still, discardA real elegance, a little used,For monstrous novelty and strange disguise.We sacrifice to dress, till household joysAnd comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry,And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires;And introduces hunger, frost, and woe,Where peace and hospitality might reign.What man that lives, and that knows how to live,Would fail to exhibit at the public showsA form as splendid as the proudest there,Though appetite raise outcries at the cost?A man of the town dines late, but soon enough,With reasonable forecast and despatch,To ensure a side-box station at half-price.You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress,His daily fare as delicate. Alas!He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seemsWith an old tavern quill, is hungry yet!The rout is Folly's circle, which she drawsWith magic wand. So potent is the spell,That none, decoy'd into that fatal ring,Unless by Heaven's peculiar grace, escape.There we grow early grey, but never wise;There form connexions, but acquire no friend;Solicit pleasure, hopeless of success;Waste youth in occupations only fitFor second childhood, and devote old ageTo sports which only childhood could excuse.There they are happiest who dissemble bestTheir weariness; and they the most politeWho squander time and treasure with a smile,Though at their own destruction. She that asksHer dear five hundred friends contemns them all,And hates their coming. They (what can they less?)Make just reprisals; and, with cringe and shrug,And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her.All catch the frenzy, downward from her grace,Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies,And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass,To her, who, frugal only that her thriftMay feed excesses she can ill afford,Is hackney'd home unlackey'd; who, in hasteAlighting, turns the key in her own door,And, at the watchman's lantern borrowing light,Finds a cold bed her only comfort left.Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their wives,On Fortune's velvet altar offering upTheir last poor pittance. Fortune, most severeOf goddesses yet known, and costlier farThan all that held their routs in Juno;s heaven.So fare we in this prison-house, the world;And 'tis a fearful spectacle to seeSo many maniacs dancing in their chains.They gaze upon the links that hold them fastWith eyes of anguish, execrate their lot,Then shake them in despair, and dance again!

Now basket up the family of plaguesThat waste our vitals; peculation, saleOf honour, perjury, corruption, fraudsBy forgery, by subterfuge of law,By tricks and lies as numerous and as keenAs the necessities their authors feel;Then cast them, closely bundled, every bratAt the right door. Profusion is the sire.Profusion unrestrain'd, with all that's baseIn character, has litter'd all the land,And bred, within the memory of no few,A priesthood such as Baal's was of old,A people such as never was till now.It is a hungry vice: it eats up all That gives society its beauty, strength,Convenience, and security, and use:Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapp'dAnd gibbeted, as fast as catchpole clawsCan seize the slippery prey: unties the knotOf union, and converts the sacred band,That holds mankind together, to a scourge.Profusion, deluging a state with lustsOf grossest nature and of worst effects,Prepares it for its ruin: hardens, blinds,And warps the consciences of public men,Till they can laugh at Virtue; mock the foolsThat trust them; and in the end disclose a faceThat would have shock'd Credulity herself,Unmask'd, vouchsafing this their sole excuseSince all alike are selfish, why not they?This does Profusion, and the accursed causeOf such deep mischief has itself a cause.

In colleges and halls, in ancient days,When learning, virtue, piety, and truthWere precious and inculcated with care,There dwelt a sage call'd Discipline. His head,Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er,Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth,But strong for service still, and unimpair'd.His eye was meek and gentle, and a smilePlay'd on his lips; and in his speech was heardPaternal sweetness, dignity, and love.The occupation dearest to his heartWas to encourage goodness. He would strokeThe head of modest and ingenuous worth,That blush'd at its own praise; and press the youthClose to his side that pleased him. Learning grewBeneath his care a thriving vigorous plant;The mind was well-inform'd, the passions heldSubordinate, and diligence was choice.If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must,That one among so many overleap'dThe limits of control, his gentle eyeGrew stern, and darted a severe rebuke:His frown was full of terror, and his voiceShook the delinquent with such fits of aweAs left him not, till penitence had wonLost favour back again, and closed the breach.But Discipline, a faithful servant long,Declined at length into the vale of years:A palsy struck his arm; his sparkling eyeWas quench'd in rheums of age; his voice, unstrung,Grew tremulous, and moved derision moreThan reverence in perverse rebellious youth.So colleges and halls neglected muchTheir good old friend; and Discipline at length,O'erlook'd and unemploy'd, fell sick, and died.Then Study languish'd, Emulation slept,And Virtue fled. The schools became a sceneOf solemn farce, where ignorance in stilts,His cap well lined with logic not his own,With parrot tongue perform'd the scholar's part,Proceeding soon a graduated dunce.Then Compromise had place, and ScrutinyBecame stone blind; Precedence went in truck,And he was competent whose purse was so.A dissolution of all bonds ensued;The curbs invented for the mulish mouthOf headstrong youth were broken; bars and boltsGrew rusty by disuse; and massy gatesForgot their office, opening with a touch;Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade,The tassell'd cap and the spruce band a jest,A mockery of the world! What need of theseFor gamesters, jockeys, brothellers impure,Spendthrifts, and booted sportsmen, oftener seenWith belted waist and pointers at their heelsThan in the bounds of duty? What was learn'd,If aught was learn'd in childhood, is forgot;And such expense as pinches parents blue,And mortifies the liberal hand of love,Is squander'd in pursuit of idle sportsAnd vicious pleasures; buys the boy a nameThat sits a stigma on his father's house,And cleaves through life inseparably closeTo him that wears it. What can after-gamesOf riper joys, and commerce with the world,The lewd vain world, that must receive him soon,Add to such erudition, thus acquired,Where science and where virtue are profess'd?They may confirm his habits, rivet fastHis folly, but to spoil him is a taskThat bids defiance to the united powersOf fashion, dissipation, taverns, stews.Now blame we most the nurslings or the nurse?The children, crook'd, and twisted, and deform'd,Through want of care; or her whose winking eyeAnd slumbering oscitancy mars the brood?The nurse, no doubt. Regardless of her charge,She needs herself correction; needs to learnThat it is dangerous sporting with the world,With things so sacred as a nation's trust,The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge.

All are not such. I had a brother once -Peace to the memory of a man of worth,A man of letters, and of manners too!Of manners sweet as Virtue always wears,When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles.He graced a college, in which order yetWas sacred; and was honour'd, loved, and weptBy more than one, themselves conspicuous there.Some minds are temper'd happily, and mixâ€™dWith such ingredients of good sense and tasteOf what is excellent in man, they thirstWith such a zeal to be what they approve,That no restraints can circumscribe them moreThan they themselves by choice, for wisdom's sake.Nor can example hurt them; what they seeOf vice in others but enhancing moreThe charms of virtue in their just esteem.If such escape contagion, and emergePure from so foul a pool to shine abroad,And give the world their talents and themselves,Small thanks to those, whose negligence or slothExposed their inexperience to the snare,And left them to an undirected choice.

See then the quiver broken and decay'd,In which are kept our arrows! Rusting thereIn wild disorder, and unfit for use,What wonder, if, discharged into the world,They shame their shooters with a random flight,Their points obtuse, and feathers drunk with wine!Well may the church wage unsuccessful war,With such artillery arm'd. Vice parries wideThe undreaded volley with a sword of straw,And stands an impudent and fearless mark.

Have we not track'd the felon home, and foundHis birthplace and his dam? The country mourns,Mourns because every plague that can infestSociety, and that saps and worms the baseOf the edifice that Policy has raised,Swarms in all quarters; meets the eye, the ear,And suffocates the breath at every turn.Profusion breeds them; and the cause itselfOf that calamitous mischief has been found:Found too where most offensive, in the skirtsOf the robed pedagogue! Else let the arraign'd Stand up unconscious, and refute the charge.So when the Jewish leader stretch'd his arm,And waved his rod divine, a race obscene,Spawn'd in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth,Polluting Egypt: gardens, fields, and plainsWere cover'd with the pest; the streets were fill'd; The croaking nuisance lurk'd in every nook;Nor palaces, nor even chambers, 'scaped;And the land stank, so numerous was the fry.

The Task: Book Iii. -- The Garden

As one who, long in thickets and in brakesEntangled, winds now this way and now thatHis devious course uncertain, seeking home;Or, having long in miry ways been foil’d,And sore discomfited, from slough to sloughPlunging, and half despairing of escape;If chance at length he finds a greensward smoothAnd faithful to the foot, his spirits rise,He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed,And winds his way with pleasure and with ease:So I, designing other themes, and call’dTo adorn the Sofa with eulogium due,To tell its slumbers, and to paint its dreams,Have rambled wide. In country, city, seatOf academic fame (howe’er deserved),Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last.But now with pleasant pace a cleanlier roadI mean to tread. I feel myself at large,Courageous, and refresh’d for future toil,If toil awaits me, or if dangers new.

Since pulpits fail, and sounding boards reflectMost part an empty ineffectual sound,What chance that I, to fame so little known,Nor conversant with men or manners much,Should speak to purpose, or with better hopeCrack the satiric thong? ‘Twere wiser farFor me, enamour’d of sequester’d scenes,And charm’d with rural beauty, to repose,Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine,My languid limbs, when summer sears the plains;Or, when rough winter rages, on the softAnd shelter’d Sofa, while the nitrous airFeeds a blue flame, and makes a cheerful hearth;There, undisturb’d by Folly, and apprisedHow great the danger of disturbing her,To muse in silence, or at least confineRemarks that gall so many to the few,My partners in retreat. Disgust conceal’dIs ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the faultIs obstinate, and cure beyond our reach.

Domestic Happiness, thou only blissOf Paradise that has survived the fall!Though few now taste thee unimpair’d and pure,Or tasting long enjoy thee! too infirm,Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweetsUnmix’d with drops of bitter, which neglectOr temper sheds into thy crystal cup;Thou art the nurse of Virtue, in thine armsShe smiles, appearing, as in truth she is,Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again.Thou art not known where Pleasure is adored,That reeling goddess with the zoneless waistAnd wandering eyes, still leaning on the armOf Novelty, her fickle, frail support;For thou art meek and constant, hating change,And finding in the calm of truth-tried loveJoys that her stormy raptures never yield.Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we madeOf honour, dignity, and fair renown!Till prostitution elbows us asideIn all our crowded streets; and senates seem Convened for purposes of empire lessThan to release the adultress from her bond.The adultress! what a theme for angry verse!What provocation to the indignant heart,That feels for injur’d love! but I disdainThe nauseous task, to paint her as she is,Cruel, abandon’d, glorying in her shame!No:—let her pass, and, charioted alongIn guilty splendour, shake the public ways;The frequency of crimes has wash’d them white;And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch,Whom matrons now, of character unsmirch’dAnd chaste themselves, are not ashamed to own.Virtue and vice had boundaries in old time,Not to be pass’d: and she, that had renouncedHer sex’s honour, was renounced herselfBy all that prized it; not for prudery’s sake,But dignity’s, resentful of the wrong.‘Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif,Desirous to return, and not received;But was a wholesome rigour in the main,And taught the unblemish’d to preserve with careThat purity, whose loss was loss of all.Men too were nice in honour in those days,And judged offenders well. Then he that sharp’d, And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain’d,Was mark’d and shunn’d as odious. He that soldHis country, or was slack when she requiredHis every nerve in action and at stretch,Paid, with the blood that he had basely spared,The price of his default. But now—yes, nowWe are become so candid and so fair,So liberal in construction, and so richIn Christian charity (good-natured age!),That they are safe, sinners of either sex,Transgress what laws they may. Well dress’d, well bred,Well equipaged, is ticket good enoughTo pass us readily through every door.Hypocrisy, detest her as we may(And no man’s hatred ever wrong’d her yet),May claim this merit still—that she admitsThe worth of what she mimics with such care,And thus gives virtue indirect applause;But she has burnt her mask, not needed here,Where Vice has such allowance, that her shiftsAnd specious semblances have lost their use.

I was a stricken deer, that left the herdLong since: with many an arrow deep infix’d My panting side was charged, when I withdrew,To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.There was I found by One who had himselfBeen hurt by the archers. In his side he bore,And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.With gentle force soliciting the darts,He drew them forth, and heal’d, and bade me live.Since then, with few associates, in remoteAnd silent woods I wander, far from thoseMy former partners of the peopled scene;With few associates, not wishing more.Here much I ruminate, as much I may,With other views of men and manners nowThan once, and others of a life to come.I see that all are wanderers, gone astrayEach in his own delusions; they are lostIn chase of fancied happiness, still woo’d And never won. Dream after dream ensues;And still they dream that they shall still succeed;And still are disappointed. Rings the worldWith the vain stir. I sum up half mankind,And add two-thirds of the remaining half,And find the total of their hopes and fearsDreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gayAs if created only like the fly,That spreads his motley wings in the eye of noon,To sport their season, and be seen no more.The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise,And pregnant with discoveries new and rare.Some write a narrative of wars, and featsOf heroes little known; and call the rantA history; describe the man, of whomHis own coevals took but little note;And paint his person, character, and views,As they had known him from his mother’s womb.They disentangle from the puzzled skein,In which obscurity has wrapp’d them up,The threads of politic and shrewd design,That ran through all his purposes, and chargeHis mind with meanings that he never had,Or having, kept conceal’d. Some drill and boreThe solid earth, and from the strata thereExtract a register, by which we learn,That He who made it, and reveal’d its dateTo Moses, was mistaken in its age.Some, more acute, and more industrious still,Contrive creation; travel nature upTo the sharp peak of her sublimest height,And tell us whence the stars; why some are fix’d, And planetary some; what gave them firstRotation, from what fountain flow’d their light.Great contest follows, and much learned dustInvolves the combatants; each claiming truth,And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spendThe little wick of life’s poor shallow lampIn playing tricks with nature, giving lawsTo distant worlds, and trifling in their own.Is’t not a pity, now, that tickling rheumsShould ever tease the lungs and blear the sight Of oracles like these? Great pity too,That, having wielded the elements, and builtA thousand systems, each in his own way,They should go out in fume, and be forgot?Ah! what is life thus spent? and what are theyBut frantic who thus spend it? all for smoke—Eternity for bubbles proves at lastA senseless bargain. When I see such gamesPlay’d by the creatures of a Power who swearsThat he will judge the earth, and call the foolTo a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain; And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well,And prove it in the infallible resultSo hollow and so false—I feel my heartDissolve in pity, and account the learn’d,If this be learning, most of all deceived.Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleepsWhile thoughtful man is plausibly amused.Defend me therefore, common sense, say I,From reveries so airy, from the toilOf dropping buckets into empty wells,And growing old in drawing nothing up!

‘Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound,Terribly arch’d and aquiline his nose,And overbuilt with most impending brows,—‘Twere well could you permit the world to liveAs the world pleases: what’s the world to you?Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk As sweet as charity from human breasts.I think, articulate, I laugh and weep,And exercise all functions of a man.How then should I and any man that livesBe strangers to each other? Pierce my vein,Take of the crimson stream meandering there,And catechise it well: apply thy glass,Search it, and prove now if it be not bloodCongenial with thine own: and, if it be,What edge of subtlety canst thou supposeKeen enough, wise and skilful as thou art,To cut the link of brotherhood, by whichOne common Maker bound me to the kind?True; I am no proficient, I confess,In arts like yours. I cannot call the swiftAnd perilous lightnings from the angry clouds,And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath;I cannot analyse the air, nor catchThe parallax of yonder luminous point,That seems half-quench’d in the immense abyss:Such powers I boast not—neither can I restA silent witness of the headlong rage,Or heedless folly by which thousands die,Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine.

God never meant that man should scale the heavensBy strides of human wisdom. In his works,Though wondrous, he commands us in his wordTo seek him rather where his mercy shines.The mind indeed, enlighten’d from above,Views him in all; ascribes to the grand causeThe grand effect; acknowledges with joyHis manner, and with rapture tastes his style.But never yet did philosophic tube,That brings the planets home into the eyeOf Observation, and discovers, elseNot visible, his family of worlds,Discover him that rules them; such a veilHangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth,And dark in things divine. Full often tooOur wayward intellect, the more we learnOf nature overlooks her Author more;From instrumental causes proud to drawConclusions retrograde and mad mistake.But if his word once teach us, shoot a rayThrough all the heart’s dark chambers, and revealTruths undiscern’d but by that holy light,Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptizedIn the pure fountain of eternal love,Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all she seesAs meant to indicate a God to man,Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own.Learning has borne such fruit in other daysOn all her branches: piety has foundFriends in the friends of science, and true prayerHas flow’d from lips wet with Castalian dews.Such was thy wisdom, Newton, child-like sage!Sagacious reader of the works of God,And in his word sagacious. Such, too, thine,Milton, whose genius had angelic wings,And fed on manna! And such thine, in whomOur British Themis gloried with just cause,Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised,And sound integrity, not more than famedFor sanctity of manners undefiled.

All flesh is grass, and all its glory fadesLike the fair flower dishevell’d in the wind;Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.The man we celebrate must find a tomb,And we that worship him ignoble graves.Nothing is proof against the general curseOf vanity, that seizes all below.The only amaranthine flower on earthIs virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth.But what is truth? ‘Twas Pilate’s question putTo Truth itself, that deign’d him no reply.And wherefore? will not God impart his lightTo them that ask it?—Freely—’tis his joy,His glory, and his nature to impart.But to the proud, uncandid, insincere,Or negligent inquirer, not a spark.What’s that which brings contempt upon a book,And him who writes it, though the style be neat,The method clear, and argument exact?That makes a minister in holy thingsThe joy of many and the dread of more,His name a theme for praise and for reproach?—That, while it gives us worth in God’s account,Depreciates and undoes us in our own?What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy,That learning is too proud to gather up;But which the poor, and the despised of all,Seek and obtain, and often find unsought?Tell me—and I will tell thee what is truth.

O friendly to the best pursuits of man,Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace,Domestic life in rural pleasure pass’d!Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets;Though many boast thy favours, and affectTo understand and choose thee for their own.But foolish man forgoes his proper bliss,E’en as his first progenitor, and quits,Though placed in Paradise (for earth has stillSome traces of her youthful beauty left),Substantial happiness for transient joy.Scenes form’d for contemplation, and to nurseThe growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest,By every pleasing image they present,Reflections such as meliorate the heart,Compose the passions, and exalt the mind;Scenes such as these ‘tis his supreme delightTo fill with riot, and defile with blood.Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutesWe persecute, annihilate the tribesThat draw the sportsman over hill and dale,Fearless and rapt away from all his cares;Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again,Nor baited hook deceive the fish’s eye;Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song,Be quell’d in all our summer months’ retreat,How many self-deluded nymphs and swains,Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves,Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen,And crowd the roads, impatient for the town!They love the country, and none else, who seekFor their own sake its silence and its shade.Delights which who would leave, that has a heartSusceptible of pity, or a mindCultured and capable of sober thought,For all the savage din of the swift pack,And clamours of the field?—Detested sport,That owes its pleasures to another’s pain;That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieksOf harmless nature, dumb, but yet enduedWith eloquence, that agonies inspireOf silent tears and heart-distending sighs?Vain tears, alas! and sighs that never findA corresponding tone in jovial souls!Well—one at least is safe. One shelter’d hareHas never heard the sanguinary yellOf cruel man, exulting in her woes.Innocent partner of my peaceful home,Whom ten long years’ experience of my careHas made at last familiar; she has lostMuch of her vigilant instinctive dread,Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.Yes—thou mayest eat thy bread, and lick the handThat feeds thee; thou mayest frolic on the floorAt evening, and at night retire secureTo thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm’d;For I have gain’d thy confidence, have pledgedAll that is human in me to protectThine unsuspecting gratitude and love.If I survive thee, I will dig thy grave;And, when I place thee in it, sighing say,“I knew at least one hare that had a friend.”

How various his employments whom the worldCalls idle; and who justly in returnEsteems that busy world an idler too!Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,Delightful industry enjoy’d at home,And Nature, in her cultivated trimDress’d to his taste, inviting him abroad—Can he want occupation who has these?Will he be idle who has much to enjoy?Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease,Not slothful, happy to deceive the time,Not waste it, and aware that human lifeIs but a loan to be repaid with use,When He shall call his debtors to account,From whom are all our blessings, business findsE’en here: while sedulous I seek to improve,At least neglect not, or leave unemploy’d,The mind He gave me; driving it, though slackToo oft, and much impeded in its work,By causes not to be divulged in vain,To its just point—the service of mankind.He, that attends to his interior self,That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mindThat hungers, and supplies it; and who seeksA social, not a dissipated life,Has business; feels himself engaged to achieveNo unimportant, though a silent, task.A life all turbulence and noise may seemTo him that leads it, wise, and to be praised;But wisdom is a pearl with most successSought in still water and beneath clear skies.He that is ever occupied in storms,Or dives not for it, or brings up instead,Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize.

The morning finds the self-sequester’d manFresh for his task, intend what task he may.Whether inclement seasons recommendHis warm but simple home, where he enjoysWith her who shares his pleasures and his heart,Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymphWhich neatly she prepares; then to his bookWell chosen, and not sullenly perusedIn selfish silence, but imparted oft,As ought occurs, that she might smile to hear,Or turn to nourishment, digested well.Or if the garden, with its many cares,All well repaid, demand him, he attendsThe welcome call, conscious how much the handOf lubbard Labour needs his watchful eye.Oft loitering lazily, if not o’erseen,Or misapplying his unskilful strength.Nor does he govern only or direct,But much performs himself. No works, indeed,That ask robust, tough sinews, bred to toil,Servile employ; but such as may amuse,Not tire, demanding rather skill than force.Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees,That meet no barren interval between,With pleasure more than e’en their fruits afford;Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel.These therefore are his own peculiar charge;No meaner hand may discipline the shoots,None but his steel approach them. What is weak,Distemper’d, or has lost prolific powers,Impair’d by age, his unrelenting handDooms to the knife: nor does he spare the softAnd succulent, that feeds its giant growth,But barren, at the expense of neighbouring twigsLess ostentatious, and yet studded thick With hopeful gems. The rest, no portion leftThat may disgrace his art, or disappointLarge expectations, he disposes neat,At measured distances, that air and sun,Admitted freely, may afford their aid,And ventilate and warm the swelling buds.Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence,And hence e’en Winter fills his wither’d handWith blushing fruits, and plenty not his own.Fair recompence of labour well bestow’d,And wise precaution; which a clime so rudeMakes needful still, whose Spring is but the childOf churlish Winter, in her froward moodsDiscovering much the temper of her sire.For oft, as if in her the stream of mildMaternal nature had reversed its course,She brings her infants forth with many smiles;But, once deliver’d, kills them with a frown.He therefore, timely warn’d himself, suppliesHer want of care, screening and keeping warmThe plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweepHis garlands from the boughs. Again, as oftAs the sun peeps, and vernal airs breathe mild,The fence withdrawn, he gives them every beam,And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day.

To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd,So grateful to the palate, and when rareSo coveted, else base and disesteem’d—Food for the vulgar merely—is an artThat toiling ages have but just matured,And at this moment unassay’d in song.Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice, long since,Their eulogy; those sang the Mantuan bard;And these the Grecian, in ennobling strains;And in thy numbers, Phillips, shines for aye,The solitary shilling. Pardon then,Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame,The ambition of one meaner far, whose powers,Presuming an attempt not less sublime,Pant for the praise of dressing to the tasteOf critic appetite no sordid fare,A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce.

The stable yields a stercoraceous heap,Impregnated with quick fermenting salts,And potent to resist the freezing blast;For, ere the beech and elm have cast their leafDeciduous, when now November darkChecks vegetation in the torpid plantExposed to his cold breath, the task begins.Warily therefore, and with prudent heed,He seeks a favour’d spot; that where he buildsThe agglomerated pile his frame may frontThe sun’s meridian disk, and at the backEnjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedgeImpervious to the wind. First he bids spreadDry fern or litter’d hay, that may imbibeThe ascending damps; then leisurely impose,And lightly, shaking it with agile handFrom the full fork, the saturated straw.What longest binds the closest forms secureThe shapely side, that as it rises takes,By just degrees, an overhanging breadth,Sheltering the base with its projected eaves;The uplifted frame, compact at every joint,And overlaid with clear translucent glass,He settles next upon the sloping mount,Whose sharp declivity shoots off secureFrom the dash’d pane the deluge as it falls.He shuts it close, and the first labour ends.Thrice must the voluble and restless earthSpin round upon her axle, ere the warmth,Slow gathering in the midst, through the square massDiffused, attain the surface: when, behold!A pestilent and most corrosive steam,Like a gross fog Bœotian, rising fast,And fast condensed upon the dewy sash,Asks egress; which obtain’d, the overchargedAnd drench’d conservatory breathes abroad,In volumes wheeling slow, the vapour dank;And, purified, rejoices to have lostIts foul inhabitant. But to assuageThe impatient fervour, which it first conceivesWithin its reeking bosom, threatening deathTo his young hopes, requires discreet delay.Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oftThe way to glory by miscarriage foul,Must prompt him, and admonish how to catchThe auspicious moment, when the temper’d heat,Friendly to vital motion, may affordSoft fomentation, and invite the seed.The seed, selected wisely, plump, and smooth,And glossy, he commits to pots of sizeDiminutive, well fill’d with well preparedAnd fruitful soil, that has been treasured long,And drunk no moisture from the dripping clouds.These on the warm and genial earth, that hidesThe smoking manure, and o’erspreads it all,He places lightly, and, as time subduesThe rage of fermentation, plunges deepIn the soft medium, till they stand immersed.Then rise the tender germs, upstarting quick,And spreading wide their spongy lobes; at firstPale, wan, and livid; but assuming soon,If fann’d by balmy and nutritious air,Strain’d through the friendly mats, a vivid green.Two leaves produced, two rough indented leaves,Cautious he pinches from the second stalkA pimple, that portends a future sprout,And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeedThe branches, sturdy to his utmost wish;Prolific all, and harbingers of more.The crowded roots demand enlargement now,And transplantation in an ampler space.Indulged in what they wish, they soon supplyLarge foliage, overshadowing golden flowers,Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit.These have their sexes; and when summer shines,The bee transports the fertilizing mealFrom flower to flower, and e’en the breathing airWafts the rich prize to its appointed use.Not so when winter scowls. Assistant ArtThen acts in Nature’s office, brings to passThe glad espousals, and ensures the crop.

Grudge not, ye rich (since Luxury must haveHis dainties, and the World’s more numerous halfLives by contriving delicates for you),Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares,The vigilance, the labour, and the skill,That day and night are exercised, and hangUpon the ticklish balance of suspense,That ye may garnish your profuse regalesWith summer fruits brought forth by wintry suns.Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwartThe process. Heat, and cold, and wind, and steam,Moisture, and drought, mice, worms, and swarming flies,Minute as dust, and numberless, oft workDire disappointment, that admits no cure,And which no care can obviate. It were long,Too long, to tell the expedients and the shiftsWhich he that fights a season so severeDevises while he guards his tender trust;And oft at last in vain. The learn’d and wiseSarcastic would exclaim, and judge the songCold as its theme, and like its theme the fruitOf too much labour, worthless when produced.

Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.Unconscious of a less propitious clime,There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug,While the winds whistle and the snows descend.The spiry myrtle with unwithering leafShines there, and flourishes. The golden boastOf Portugal and western India there,The ruddier orange, and the paler lime,Peep through their polish’d foliage at the storm,And seem to smile at what they need not fear.The amomum there with intermingling flowersAnd cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boastsHer crimson honours; and the spangled beau,Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long.All plants, of every leaf that can endureThe winter’s frown, if screen’d from his shrewd bite,Live there, and prosper. Those Ausonia claims,Levantine regions these; the Azores sendTheir jessamine, her jessamine remoteCaffraria: foreigners from many lands,They form one social shade, as if convenedBy magic summons of the Orphean lyre.Yet just arrangement, rarely brought to passBut by a master’s hand, disposing wellThe gay diversities of leaf and flower,Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms,And dress the regular yet various scene.Plant behind plant aspiring, in the vanThe dwarfish, in the rear retired, but stillSublime above the rest, the statelier stand.So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome,A noble show! while Roscius trod the stage;And so, while Garrick, as renown’d as he,The sons of Albion; fearing each to loseSome note of Nature’s music from his lips,And covetous of Shakspeare’s beauty, seenIn every flash of his far beaming eye.Nor taste alone and well contrived displaySuffice to give the marshall’d ranks the graceOf their complete effect. Much yet remainsUnsung, and many cares are yet behind,And more laborious; cares on which dependsTheir vigour, injured soon, not soon restored.The soil must be renewed, which often wash’d,Loses its treasure of salubrious salts,And disappoints the roots; the slender rootsClose interwoven, where they meet the vase,Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branchMust fly before the knife; the wither’d leafMust be detach’d, and where it strews the floorSwept with a woman’s neatness, breeding elseContagion, and disseminating death.Discharge but these kind offices (and whoWould spare, that loves them, offices like these?)Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleased,The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf,Each opening blossom freely breathes abroadIts gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets.

So manifold, all pleasing in their kind,All healthful, are the employs of rural life,Reiterated as the wheel of timeRuns round; still ending and beginning still.Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll,That softly swell’d and gaily dress’d appearsA flowery island, from the dark green lawnEmerging, must be deem’d a labour dueTo no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste.Here also grateful mixture of well-match’dAnd sorted hues (each giving each relief,And by contrasted beauty shining more)Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous spade,May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home;But elegance, chief grace the garden shows,And most attractive, is the fair resulOf thought, the creature of a polish’d mind.Without it all is gothic as the sceneTo which the insipid citizen resortsNear yonder heath; where Industry misspent,But proud of his uncouth ill chosen task,Has made a heaven on earth; with suns and moonsOf close ramm’d stones has charged the encumber’d soil,And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust.He therefore, who would see his flowers disposedSightly and in just order, ere he givesThe beds the trusted treasure of their seeds,Forecasts the future whole; that when the sceneShall break into its preconceived display,Each for itself, and all as with one voiceConspiring, may attest his bright design.Nor even then, dismissing as perform’dHis pleasant work, may he suppose it done.Few self-supported flowers endure the windUninjured, but expect the upholding aidOf the smooth shaven prop, and, neatly tied,Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age,For interest sake, the living to the dead.Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffusedAnd lowly creeping, modest and yet fair,Like virtue, thriving most where little seen;Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbour shrubWith clasping tendrils, and invest his branch,Else unadorn’d with many a gay festoonAnd fragrant chaplet, recompensing wellThe strength they borrow with the grace they lend.All hate the rank society of weeds,Noisome, and ever greedy to exhaustThe impoverish’d earth; an overbearing race,That, like the multitude made faction mad,Disturb good order, and degrade true worth.

O blest seclusion from a jarring world,Which he, thus occupied, enjoys! RetreatCannot indeed to guilty man restoreLost innocence, or cancel follies past;But it has peace, and much secures the mindFrom all assaults of evil; proving stillA faithful barrier, not o’erleap’d with easeBy vicious Custom, raging uncontroll’dAbroad, and desolating public life.When fierce temptation, seconded withinBy traitor Appetite, and arm’d with dartsTemper’d in Hell, invades the throbbing breast,To combat may be glorious, and successPerhaps may crown us; but to fly is safe.Had I the choice of sublunary good,What could I wish, that I possess not here?Health, leisure, means to improve it, friendship, peace,No loose or wanton, though a wandering, muse,And constant occupation without care.Thus blest I draw a picture of that bliss;Hopeless indeed, that dissipated minds,And profligate abusers of a worldCreated fair so much in vain for them,Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe,Allured by my report: but sure no lessThat self-condemn’d they must neglect the prize,And what they will not taste must yet approve.What we admire we praise; and, when we praise,Advance it into notice, that, its worthAcknowledged, others may admire it too.I therefore recommend, though at the riskOf popular disgust, yet boldly still,The cause of piety and sacred truth,And virtue, and those scenes which God ordain’dShould best secure them and promote them most,Scenes that I love, and with regret perceiveForsaken, or through folly not enjoy’d.Pure is the nymph, though liberal of her smiles,And chaste, though unconfined, whom I extol.Not as the prince in Shushan, when he call’d,Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth,To grace the full pavilion. His designWas but to boast his own peculiar good,Which all might view with envy, none partake.My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets,And she that sweetens all my bitters too,Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose formAnd lineaments divine I trace a handThat errs not, and finds raptures still renew’d,Is free to all men—universal prize.Strange that so fair a creature should yet wantAdmirers, and be destined to divideWith meaner objects e’en the few she finds!Stripp’d of her ornaments, her leaves, and flowers,She loses all her influence. Cities thenAttract us, and neglected Nature pines,Abandon’d as unworthy of our love.But are not wholesome airs, though unperfumedBy roses; and clear suns, though scarcely felt;And groves, if unharmonious, yet secureFrom clamour, and whose very silence charms;To be preferr’d to smoke, to the eclipseThat metropolitan volcanoes make,Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day long;And to the stir of Commerce, driving slow,And thundering loud, with his ten thousand wheels?They would be, were not madness in the head,And folly in the heart; were England nowWhat England was, plain, hospitable, kind,And undebauch’d. But we have bid farewellTo all the virtues of those better days,And all their honest pleasures. Mansions onceKnew their own masters; and laborious hinds,Who had survived the father, served the son.Now the legitimate and rightful lordIs but a transient guest, newly arrived,And soon to be supplanted. He that sawHis patrimonial timber cast its leafSells the last scantling, and transfers the priceTo some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again.Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile,Then advertised, and auctioneer’d away.The country starves, and they that feed the o’erchargedAnd surfeited lewd town with her fair dues,By a just judgment strip and starve themselves.The wings, that waft our riches out of sight,Grow on the gamester’s elbows; and the alertAnd nimble motion of those restless joints,That never tire, soon fans them all away.Improvement too, the idol of the age,Is fed with many a victim. Lo, he comes!The omnipotent magician, Brown, appears!Down falls the venerable pile, the abodeOf our forefathers—a grave whisker’d race,But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead,But in a distant spot; where more exposedIt may enjoy the advantage of the north,And aguish east, till time shall have transform’d Those naked acres to a sheltering grove.He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn:Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise;And streams, as if created for his use,Pursue the track of his directing wand,Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow,Now murmuring soft, now roaring in cascades—E’en as he bids! The enraptured owner smiles.‘Tis finish’d, and yet, finish’d as it seems,Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show,A mine to satisfy the enormous cost.Drain’d to the last poor item of his wealth,He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplish’d plan,That he has touch’d, retouch’d, many a long dayLabour’d, and many a night pursued in dreams,Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the heavenHe wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy!And now perhaps the glorious hour is comeWhen, having no stake left, no pledge to endearHer interests, or that gives her sacred causeA moment’s operation on his love,He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal,To serve his country. Ministerial graceDeals him out money from the public chest;Or, if that mine be shut, some private purseSupplies his need with a usurious loan,To be refunded duly, when his voteWell managed shall have earn’d its worthy price.O innocent, compared with arts like these,Crape, and cock’d pistol, and the whistling ballSent through the traveller’s temples! He that findsOne drop of Heaven’s sweet mercy in his cup,Can dig, beg, rot, and perish, well content,So he may wrap himself in honest ragsAt his last gasp: but could not for a worldFish up his dirty and dependent breadFrom pools and ditches of the commonwealth,Sordid and sickening at his own success.

Ambition, avarice, penury incurr’dBy endless riot, vanity, the lustOf pleasure and variety, despatch,As duly as the swallows disappear,The world of wandering knights and squires to town.London engulfs them all! The shark is there,And the shark’s prey; the spendthrift, and the leechThat sucks him; there the sycophant, and heWho, with bareheaded and obsequious bows,Begs a warm office, doom’d to a cold jailAnd groat per diem, if his patron frown.The levee swarms, as if in golden pompWere character’d on every statesman’s door,“Batter’d and bankrupt fortunes mended here.”These are the charms that sully and eclipse The charms of nature. ‘Tis the cruel gripeThat lean hard-handed Poverty inflicts,The hope of better things, the chance to win,The wish to shine, the thirst to be amused,That at the sound of Winter’s hoary wingUnpeople all our counties of such herdsOf fluttering, loitering, cringing, begging, loose,And wanton vagrants, as make London, vastAnd boundless as it is, a crowded coop.

O thou, resort and mart of all the earth,Chequer’d with all complexions of mankind,And spotted with all crimes; in whom I seeMuch that I love, and more that I admire,And all that I abhor; thou freckled fair,That pleasest and yet shock’st me, I can laugh,And I can weep, can hope, and can despond,Feel wrath and pity, when I think on thee!Ten righteous would have saved the city once,And thou hast many righteous.—Well for thee—That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else,And therefore more obnoxious, at this hour,Than Sodom in her day had power to be,For whom God heard his Abraham plead in vain.

Conversation

Though nature weigh our talents, and dispenseTo every man his modicum of sense,And Conversation in its better partMay be esteem'd a gift, and not an art,Yet much depends, as in the tiller’s toil,On culture, and the sowing of the soil.Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse,But talking is not always to converse;Not more distinct from harmony divine,The constant creaking of a country sign.As alphabets in ivory employ,Hour after hour, the yet unletter’d boy,Sorting and puzzling with a deal of gleeThose seeds of science call’d his a b c;So language in the mouths of the adult,Witness its insignificant result,Too often proves an implement of play,A toy to sport with, and pass time away.Collect at evening what the day brought forth,Compress the sum into its solid worth,And if it weigh the importance of a fly,The scales are false, or algebra a lie.Sacred interpreter of human thought,How few respect or use thee as they ought!But all shall give account of every wrong,Who dare dishonour or defile the tongue;Who prostitute it in the cause of vice,Or sell their glory at a market-price;Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon,The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buffoon.There is a prurience in the speech of some,Wrath stays him, or else God would strike them dumb;His wise forbearance has their end in view,They fill their measure and receive their due.The heathen lawgivers of ancient days,Names almost worthy of a Christian’s praise,Would drive them forth from the resort of men,And shut up every satyr in his den.Oh, come not ye near innocence and truth,Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth!Infectious as impure, your blighting powerTaints in its rudiments the promised flower;Its odour perish’d, and its charming hue,Thenceforth ‘tis hateful, for it smells of you.Not e’en the vigorous and headlong rageOf adolescence, or a firmer age,Affords a plea allowable or justFor making speech the pamperer of lust;But when the breath of age commits the fault,‘Tis nauseous as the vapour of a vault.So wither’d stumps disgrace the sylvan scene,No longer fruitful, and no longer green;The sapless wood, divested of the bark,Grows fungous, and takes fire at every spark.Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife—Some men have surely then a peaceful life!Whatever subject occupy discourse,The feats of Vestris, or the naval force,Asseveration blustering in your faceMakes contradiction such a hopeless case:In every tale they tell, or false or true,Well known, or such as no man ever knew,They fix attention, heedless of your pain,With oaths like rivets forced into the brain;And e’en when sober truth prevails throughout,They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt.A Persian, humble servant of the sun,Who, though devout, yet bigotry had none,Hearing a lawyer, grave in his address,With adjurations every word impress,Supposed the man a bishop, or at least,God’s name so much upon his lips, a priest;Bow’d at the close with all his graceful airs,And begg’d an interest in his frequent prayers.Go, quit the rank to which ye stood preferr’d,Henceforth associate in one common herd;Religion, virtue, reason, common sense,Pronounce your human form a false pretence:A mere disguise, in which a devil lurks,Who yet betrays his secret by his works.Ye powers who rule the tongue, if such there are,And make colloquial happiness your care,Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate,A duel in the form of a debate.The clash of arguments and jar of words,Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swords,Decide no question with their tedious length,For opposition gives opinion strength,Divert the champions prodigal of breath,And put the peaceably disposed to death.Oh, thwart me not, Sir Soph, at every turn,Nor carp at every flaw you may discern;Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue,I am not surely always in the wrong;‘Tis hard if all is false that I advance,A fool must now and then be right by chance.Not that all freedom of dissent I blame;No—there I grant the privilege I claim.A disputable point is no man’s ground;Rove where you please, ‘tis common all around.Discourse may want an animated—No, To brush the surface, and to make it flow;But still remember, if you mean to please,To press your point with modesty and ease.The mark, at which my juster aim I take,Is contradiction for its own dear sake.Set your opinion at whatever pitch,Knots and impediments make something hitch;Adopt his own, ‘tis equally in vain,Your thread of argument is snapp’d again;The wrangler, rather than accord with you,Will judge himself deceived, and prove it too.Vociferated logic kills me quite,A noisy man is always in the right,I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare,And, when I hope his blunders are all out,Reply discreetly—To be sure—no doubt!Dubius is such a scrupulous good man—Yes—you may catch him tripping, if you can.He would not, with a peremptory tone,Assert the nose upon his face his own;With hesitation admirably slow,He humbly hopes—presumes—it may be so.His evidence, if he were call’d by lawTo swear to some enormity he saw,For want of prominence and just relief,Would hang an honest man and save a thief.Though constant dread of giving truth offence,He ties up all his hearers in suspense;Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;What he remembers seems to have forgot;His sole opinion, whatsoe’er befall,Centring at last in having none at all.Yet, though he tease and balk your listening ear,He makes one useful point exceeding clear;Howe’er ingenious on his darling themeA sceptic in philosophy may seem,Reduced to practice, his beloved ruleWould only prove him a consummate fool;Useless in him alike both brain and speech,Fate having placed all truth above his reach,His ambiguities his total sum,He might as well be blind, and deaf, and dumb.Where men of judgment creep and feel their way,The positive pronounce without dismay;Their want of light and intellect suppliedBy sparks absurdity strikes out of pride.Without the means of knowing right from wrong,They always are decisive, clear, and strong.Where others toil with philosophic force,Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course;Flings at your head conviction in the lump,And gains remote conclusions at a jump:Their own defect, invisible to them,Seen in another, they at once condemn;And, though self-idolised in every case,Hate their own likeness in a brother’s face.The cause is plain, and not to be denied,The proud are always most provoked by pride.Few competitions but engender spite;And those the most, where neither has a right.The point of honour has been deem’d of use,To teach good manners and to curb abuse:Admit it true, the consequence is clear,Our polish’d manners are a mask we wear,And at the bottom barbarous still and rude;We are restrain’d indeed, but not subdued.The very remedy, however sure,Springs from the mischief it intends to cure,And savage in its principle appears,Tried, as it should be, by the fruit it bears.‘Tis hard, indeed, if nothing will defendMankind from quarrels but their fatal end;That now and then a hero must decease,That the surviving world may live in peace.Perhaps at last close scrutiny may shewThe practice dastardly, and mean, and low;That men engage in it compell’d by force;And fear, not courage, is its proper source.The fear of tyrant custom, and the fearLest fops should censure us, and fools should sneer.At least to trample on our Maker’s laws,And hazard life for any or no cause,To rush into a fix’d eternal stateOut of the very flames of rage and hate,Or send another shivering to the barWith all the guilt of such unnatural war,Whatever use may urge, or honour plead,On reason’s verdict is a madman’s deed.Am I to set my life upon a throw,Because a bear is rude and surly? No—A moral, sensible, and well-bred manWill not affront me, and no other can.Were I empower’d to regulate the lists,They should encounter with well loaded fists;A Trojan combat would be something new,Let Dares beat Entellus black and blue;Then each might shew, to his admiring friends,In honourable bumps his rich amends,And carry, in contusions of his skull,A satisfactory receipt in full.A story, in which native humour reigns,Is often useful, always entertains:A graver fact, enlisted on your side,May furnish illustration, well applied;But sedentary weavers of long talesGive me the fidgets, and my patience fails.‘Tis the most asinine employ on earth,To hear them tell of parentage and birth,And echo conversations dull and dry,Embellish’d with—He said,—and, So said I.At every interview their route the same,The repetition makes attention lame:We bustle up with unsuccessful speed,And in the saddest part cry—Droll indeed!The path of narrative with care pursue,Still making probability your clue;On all the vestiges of truth attendAnd let them guide you to a decent end.Of all ambitious man may entertain,The worst that can invade a sickly brain,Is that which angles hourly for surprise,And baits its hook with prodigies and lies.Credulous infancy, or age as weak,Are fittest auditors for such to seek,Who to please others will themselves disgrace,Yet please not, but affront you to your face.A great retailer of this curious ware,Having unloaded and made many stare,Can this be true?—an arch observer cries;Yes (rather moved), I saw it with these eyes!Sir! I believe it on that ground alone;I could not had I seen it with my own.A tale should be judicious, clear, succint;The language plain, the incidents well link’d;Tell not as new what everybody knows,And, new or old, still hasten to a close;There, centring in a focus round and neat,Let all your rays of information meet.What neither yields us profit nor delightIs like a nurse’s lullaby at night;Guy Earl of Warwick and fair Eleanore,Or giant-killing Jack, would please me more.The pipe, with solemn interposing puff,Makes half a sentence at a time enough;The dozing sages drop the drowsy strain,Then pause, and puff—and speak, and pause again.Such often, like the tube they so admire,Important triflers! have more smoke than fire.Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys,Unfriendly to society’s chief joys,Thy worst effect is banishing for hoursThe sex whose presence civilizes ours;Thou art indeed the drug a gardener wantsTo poison vermin that infest his plants;But are we so to wit and beauty blind,As to despise the glory of our kind,And shew the softest minds and fairest formsAs little mercy as he grubs and worms?They dare not wait the riotous abuseThy thirst-creating steams at length produce,When wine has given indecent language birth,And forced the floodgates of licentious mirth;For seaborn Venus her attachment shewsStill to that element from which she rose,And, with a quiet which no fumes disturb,Sips meek infusions of a milder herb.The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose,In contact inconvenient, nose to nose,As if the gnomon on his neighbour’s phiz,Touch’d with the magnet, had attracted his.His whisper’d theme, dilated and at large,Proves after all a wind-gun’s airy charge,An extract of his diary—no more,A tasteless journal of the day before.He walk’d abroad, o’ertaken in the rain,Call’d on a friend, drank tea, stepp’d home again,Resumed his purpose, had a world of talkWith one he stumbled on, and lost his walk.I interrupt him with a sudden bow,Adieu, dear sir! lest you should lose it now.I cannot talk with civet in the room,A fine puss gentleman that’s all perfume;The sight’s enough—no need to smell a beau—Who thrusts his head into a raree-show?His odoriferous attempts to pleasePerhaps might prosper with a swarm of bees;But we that make no honey, though we sting,Poets, are sometimes apt to maul the thing.‘Tis wrong to bring into a mix’d resort,What makes some sick, and others a-la-mort,An argument of cogence, we may say,Why such a one should keep himself away.A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see,Quite as absurd, though not so light as he:A shallow brain behind a serious mask,An oracle within an empty cask,The solemn fop; significant and budge;A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge.He says but little, and that little said,Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead.His wit invites you by his looks to come,But when you knock, it never is at home:‘Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage,Some handsome present, as your hopes presage;‘Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to proveAn absent friend’s fidelity and love,But when unpack’d, your disappointment groansTo find it stuff’d with brickbats, earth, and stones.Some men employ their health, an ugly trick,In making known how oft they have been sick,And give us, in recitals of disease,A doctor’s trouble, but without the fees;Relate how many weeks they kept their bed,How an emetic or cathartic sped;Nothing is slightly touch’d, much less forgot,Nose, ears, and eyes, seem present on the spot.Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill,Victorious seem’d, and now the doctor’s skill;And now—alas for unforeseen mishaps!They put on a damp nightcap, and relapse;They thought they must have died, they were so bad:Their peevish hearers almost wish they had.Some fretful tempers wince at every touch,You always do too little or too much:You speak with life, in hopes to entertain,Your elevated voice goes through the brain;You fall at once into a lower key,That’s worse—the drone-pipe of an humble-bee.The southern sash admits too strong a light,You rise and drop the curtain—now ‘tis night.He shakes with cold—you stir the fire and striveTo make blaze—that’s roasting him alive.Serve him with venison, and he wishes fish;With sole—that’s just the sort he would not wish.He takes what he at first profess’d to loathe,And in due time feeds heartily on both;Yet still, o’erclouded with a constant frown,He does not swallow, but he gulps it down.Your hope to please him vain on every plan,Himself should work that wonder if he can—Alas! his efforts double his distress,He likes yours little, and his own still less.Thus always teasing others, always teased,His only pleasure is to be displeased.I pity bashful men, who feel the painOf fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,And bear the marks upon a blushing faceOf needless shame and self-imposed disgrace.Our sensibilities are so acute,The fear of being silent makes us mute.We sometimes think we could a speech produceMuch to the purpose, if our tongues were loose;But, being tried, it dies upon the lip,Faint as a chicken’s note that has the pip:Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.Few Frenchmen of this evil have complain’d;It seems as if we Britons were ordain’d,By way of wholesome curb upon our pride,To fear each other, fearing none beside.The cause perhaps inquiry may descry,Self-searching with an introverted eye,Conceal’d within an unsuspected part,The vainest corner of our own vain heart:For ever aiming at the world’s esteem,Our self-importance ruins its own scheme;In other eyes our talents rarely shewn,Become at length so splendid in our own,We dare not risk them into public view,Lest they miscarry of what seems their due.True modesty is a discerning grace,And only blushes in the proper place;But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear,Where ‘tis a shame to be ashamed to appear:Humility the parent of the first,The last by vanity produced and nursed.The circle form’d, we sit in silent state,Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate;Yes, ma’am, and No, ma’am, utter’d softly, shewEvery five minutes how the minutes go;Each individual, suffering a constraintPoetry may, but colours cannot, paint;And, if in close committee on the sky,Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry;And finds a changing clime a happy sourceOf wise reflection and well-timed discourse.We next inquire, but softly and by stealth,Like conservators of the public health,Of epidemic throats, if such there are,And coughs, and rheums, and phthisic, and catarrh.That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues,Fill’d up at last with interesting news;Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed,And who is hang’d, and who is brought to bed:But fear to call a more important cause,As if ‘twere treason against English laws.The visit paid, with ecstacy we come,As from a seven years’ transportation, home,And there resume an unembarrass’d brow,Recovering what we lost, we know not how,The faculties that seem’d reduced to nought,Expression and the privilege of thought.The reeking, roaring hero of the chase,I give him over as a desperate case.Physicians write in hopes to work a cure,Never, if honest ones, when death is sure;And though the fox he follows may be tamed,A mere fox-follower never is reclaim’d.Some farrier should prescribe his proper course,Whose only fit companion is his horse;Or if, deserving of a better doom,The noble beast judge otherwise, his groom.Yet e’en the rogue that serves him, though he standTo take his honour’s orders, cap in hand,Prefers his fellow grooms with much good sense,Their skill a truth, his master’s a pretence.If neither horse nor groom affect the ‘squire,Where can at last his jockeyship retire?Oh, to the club, the scene of savage joys,The school of coarse good fellowship and noise;There, in the sweet society of thoseWhose friendship from his boyish years he chose,Let him improve his talent if he can,Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man.Man’s heart had been impenetrably seal’d,Like theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field,Had not his Maker’s all-bestowing handGiven him a soul, and bade him understand;The reasoning power vouchsafed, of course inferr’dThe power to clothe that reason with his word;For all is perfect that God works on earth,And he that gives conception aids the birh.If this be plain, ‘tis plainly understood,What uses of his boon the Giver would.The mind despatch’d upon her busy toil,Should range where Providence has bless’d the soil;Visiting every flower with labour meet,And gathering all her treasures sweet by sweet,She should imbue the tongue with what she sips,And shed the balmy blessing on the lips,That good diffused may more abundant grow,And speech may praise the power that bids it flow.Will the sweet warbler of the livelong night,That fills the listening lover with delight,Forget his harmony, with rapture heard,To learn the twittering of a meaner bird?Or make the parrot’s mimicry his choice,That odious libel on a human voice?No—nature, unsophisticate by man,Starts not aside from her Creator’s plan;The melody, that was at first design’dTo cheer the rude forefathers of mankind,Is note for note deliver’d in our ears,In the last scene of her six thousand years.Yet Fashion, leader of a chattering train,Whom man for his own hurt permits to reign,Who shifts and changes all things but his shape,And would degrade her votary to an ape,The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong,Holds a usurp’d dominion o’er his tongue;There sits and prompts him with his own disgrace,Prescribes the theme, the tone, and the grimace,And, when accomplish’d in her wayward school,Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool.‘Tis an unalterable fix’d decree,That none could frame or ratify but she,That heaven and hell, and righteousness and sin,Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within,God and his attributes (a field of dayWhere ‘tis an angel’s happiness to stray),Fruits of his love and wonders of his might,Be never named in ears esteem’d polite;That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave,Shall stand proscribed, a madman or a knave,A close designer not to be believed,Or, if excused that charge, at least deceived.Oh, folly worthy of the nurse’s lap,Give it the breast, or stop its mouth with pap!Is it incredible, or can it seemA dream to any except those that dream,That man should love his Maker, and that fire,Warming his heart, should at his lips transpire?Know then, and modestly let fall your eyes,And veil your daring crest that braves the skies;That air of insolence affronts your God,You need his pardon, and provoke his rod:Now, in a posture that becomes you moreThan that heroic strut assumed before,Know, your arrears with every hour accrueFor mercy shewn, while wrath is justly due.The time is short, and there are souls on earth,Though future pain may serve for present mirth,Acquainted with the woes that fear or shame,By fashion taught, forbade them once to name,And, having felt the pangs you deem a jest,Have proved them truths too big to be express’d.Go seek on revelation’s hallow’d ground,Sure to succeed, the remedy they found;Touch’d by that power that you have dared to mock,That makes seas stable, and dissolves the rock,Your heart shall yield a life-renewing stream,That fools, as you have done, shall call a dream.It happen’d on a solemn eventide,Soon after He that was our surety died,Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined,The scene of all those sorrows left behind,Sought their own village, busied as they wentIn musings worthy of the great event:They spake of Him they loved, of Him whose life,Though blameless, had incurr’d perpetual strife,Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts,A deep memorial graven on their hearts.The recollection, like a vein of ore,The farther traced, enrich’d them still the more;They thought him, and they justly thought him, oneSent to do more than he appear’d to have done;To exalt a people, and to place them high,Above all else, and wonder’d he should die.Ere yet they brought their journey to an end,A stranger join’d them, courteous as a friend,And ask’d them, with a kind engaging air,What their affliction was, and begg’d a share.Inform’d, he gather’d up the broken thread,And, truth and wisdom gracing all he said,Explain’d, illustrated, and search’d so wellThe tender theme on which they chose to dwell,That, reaching home, the night, they said, is near,We must not now be parted, sojourn here—The new acquaintance soon became a guest,And, made so welcome at their simple feast,He bless’d the bread, but vanish’d at the word.And left them both exclaiming, ‘Twas the Lord!Did not our hearts feel all he deign’d to say,Did they not burn within us by the way?Now theirs was converse, such as it behovesMan to maintain, and such as God approves:Their views indeed were indistinct and dim,But yet successful, being aim’d at him.Christ and his character their only scope,Their object, and their subject, and their hope,They felt what it became them much to feel,And, wanting him to loose the sacred seal,Found him as prompt as their desire was true,To spread the new-born glories in their view.Well—what are ages and the lapse of timeMatch’d against truths, as lasting as sublime?Can length of years on God himself exact?Or make that fiction which was once a fact?No—marble and recording brass decay,And, like the graver’s memory, pass away;The works of man inherit, as is just,Their author’s frailty, and return to dust:But truth divine for ever stands secure,Its head is guarded as its base is sure:Fix’d in the rolling flood of endless years,The pillar of the eternal plan appears,The raving storm and dashing wave defies,Built by that Architect who built the skies.Hearts may be found, that harbour at this hourThat love of Christ, and all its quickening power;And lips unstain’d by folly or by strife,Whose wisdom, drawn from the deep well of life,Tastes of its healthful origin, and flowsA Jordan for the ablution of our woes.Oh, days of heaven, and nights of equal praise,Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days,When souls drawn upwards in communion sweetEnjoy the stillness of some close retreat,Discourse, as if released and safe at home,Of dangers past, and wonders yet to come,And spread the sacred treasures of the breastUpon the lap of covenanted rest!What, always dreaming over heavenly things,Like angel-heads in stone with pigeon-wings?Canting and whining out all day the word,And half the night?—fanatic and absurd!Mine be the friend less frequent in his prayers,Who makes no bustle with his soul’s affairs,Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day,And chase the splenetic dull hours away;Content on earth in earthly things to shine,Who waits for heaven ere he becomes divine,Leaves saints to enjoy those altitudes they teach,And plucks the fruit placed more within his reach.Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame,Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name.Is sparkling wit the world’s exclusive right?The fix’d fee-simple of the vain and light?Can hopes of heaven, bright prospects of an hour,That come to waft us out of sorrow’s power, Obscure or quench a faculty that findsIts happiest soil in the serenest minds?Religion curbs indeed its wanton play,And brings the trifler under rigorous sway,But gives it usefulness unknown before,And purifying, makes it shine the more,A Christian’s wit is inoffensive light,A beam that aids, but never grieves the sight;Vigorous in age as in the flush of youth;‘Tis always active on the side of truth;Temperance and peace insure its healthful state,And make it brightest at its latest date.Oh, I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain,Ere life go down, to see such sights again)A veteran warrior in the Christian field,Who never saw the sword he could not wield;Grave without dulness, learned without pride,Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen-eyed;A man that would have foil’d at their own playA dozen would-be’s of the modern day;Who, when occasion justified its use,Had wit as bright as ready to produce,Could fetch from records of an earlier age,Or from philosophy’s enlighten’d page,His rich materials, and regale your earWith strains it was a privilege to hear:Yet above all his luxury supreme,And his chief glory, was the gospel theme;There he was copious as old Greece or Rome,His happy eloquence seem’d there at home,Ambitious not to shine or to excel,But to treat justly what he loved so well.It moves me more perhaps than folly ought,When some green heads, as void of wit as thought,Suppose themselves monopolists of sense,And wiser men’s ability pretence.Though time will wear us, and we must grow old,Such men are not forgot as soon as cold,Their fragrant memory will outlast their tomb,Embalm’d for ever in its own perfume.And to say truth, though in its early prime,And when unstain’d with any grosser crime,Youth has a sprightliness and fire to boast,That in the valley of decline are lost,And virtue with peculiar charms appears,Crown’d with the garland of life’s blooming years;Yet age, by long experience well inform’d,Well read, well temper’d, with religion warm’d,That fire abated which impels rash youth,Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth,As time improves the grape’s authentic juice,Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use,And claims a reverence in its shortening day,That ‘tis an honour and a joy to pay.The fruits of age, less fair, are yet more sound,Than those a brighter season pours around;And, like the stores autumnal suns mature,Through wintry rigours unimpair’d endure.What is fanatic frenzy, scorn’d so much,And dreaded more than a contagious touch?I grant it dangerous, and approve your fear,That fire is catching, if you draw too near;But sage observers oft mistake the flame,And give true piety that odious name.To tremble (as the creature of an hourOught at the view of an almighty power)Before His presence, at whose awful throneAll tremble in all worlds, except our own,To supplicate his mercy, love his ways,And prize them above pleasure, wealth, or praise,Though common sense, allow’d a casting voice,And free from bias, must approve the choice,Convicts a man fanatic in the extreme,And wild as madness in the world’s esteem.But that disease, when soberly defined,Is the false fire of an o’erheated mind;It views the truth with a distorted eye,And either warps or lays it useless by;‘Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and drawsIts sordid nourishment from man’s applause;And, while at heart sin unrelinquish’d lies,Presumes itself chief favourite of the skies.‘Tis such a light as putrefaction breedsIn fly-blown flesh, whereon the maggot feeds,Shines in the dark, but, usher’d into day,The stench remains, the lustre dies away.True bliss, if man may reach it, is composedOf hearts in union mutually disclosed;And, farewell else all hope of pure delight,Those hearts should be reclaim’d, renew’d, upright.Bad men, profaning friendship’s hallow’d name,Form, in its stead, a covenant of shame.A dark confederacy against the lawsOf virtue, and religion’s glorious cause.They build each other up with dreadful skill,As bastions set point-blank against God’s will;Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt,Deeply resolved to shut a Saviour out;Call legions up from hell to back the deed;And, cursed with conquest, finally succeed.But souls, that carry on a blest exchangeOf joys they meet with in their heavenly range,And with a fearless confidence make knownThe sorrows sympathy esteems its own,Daily derive increasing light and forceFrom such communion in their pleasant course,Feel less the journey’s roughness and its length,Meet their opposers with united strength,And, one in heart, in interest, and design,Gird up each other to the race divine.But Conversation, choose what theme we may,And chiefly when religion leads the way,Should flow, like waters after summer showers,Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers.The Christian, in whose soul, though now distress’d,Lives the dear thought of joys he once possess’d,When all his glowing language issued forthWith God’s deep stamp upon its current worth,Will speak without disguise, and must impart,Sad as it is, his undissembling heart,Abhors constraint, and dares not feign a zeal,Or seem to boast a fire, he does not feel.The song of Sion is a tasteless thing,Unless, when rising on a joyful wing,The soul can mix with the celestial bands,And give the strain the compass it demands.Strange tidings these to tell a world, who treatAll but their own experience as deceit!Will they believe, though credulous enoughTo swallow much upon much weaker proof,That there are blest inhabitants of earth,Partakers of a new ethereal birth,Their hopes, desires, and purposes estrangedFrom things terrestrial, and divinely changed,Their very language of a kind that speaksThe soul’s sure interest in the good she seeks,Who deal with Scripture, its importance felt,As Tully with philosophy once dealt,And, in the silent watches of the night,And through the scenes of toil-renewing light,The social walk, or solitary ride,Keep still the dear companion at their side?No—shame upon a self-disgracing age,God’s work may serve an ape upon a stageWith such a jest as fill’d with hellish gleeCertain invisibles as shrewd as he;But veneration or respect finds none,Save from the subjects of that work alone.The World grown old, her deep discernment shews,Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose,Peruses closely the true Christian’s face,And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace;Usurps God’s office, lays his bosom bare,And finds hypocrisy close lurking there;And, serving God herself through mere constraint,Concludes his unfeign’d love of him a feint.And yet, God knows, look human nature through(And in due time the world shall know it too),That since the flowers of Eden felt the blast,That after man’s defection laid all waste,Sincerity towards the heart-searching GodHas made the new-born creature her abode,Nor shall be found in unregenerate soulsTill the last fire burn all between the poles.Sincerity! why ‘tis his only pride,Weak and imperfect in all grace beside,He knows that God demands his heart entire,And gives him all his just demands require.Without it, his pretensions were as vainAs, having it, he deems the world’s disdain;That great defect would cost him not aloneMan’s favourable judgment, but his own;His birthright shaken, and no longer clearThan while his conduct proves his heart sincere.Retort the charge, and let the world be toldShe boasts a confidence she does not hold;That, conscious of her crimes, she feels insteadA cold misgiving and a killing dread:That while in health the ground of her support Is madly to forget that life is short;That sick she trembles, knowing she must die,Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie;That while she dotes and dreams that she believes,She mocks her Maker and herself deceives,Her utmost reach, historical assent,The doctrines warp’d to what they never meant;That truth itself is in her head as dullAnd useless as a candle in a skull,And all her love of God a groundless claim,A trick upon the canvas, painted flame.Tell her again, the sneer upon her face,And all her censures of the work of grace,Are insincere, meant only to concealA dread she would not, yet is forced to feel;That in her heart the Christian she reveres,And, while she seems to scorn him, only fears.A poet does not work by square or line,As smiths and joiners perfect a design;At least we moderns, our attention less,Beyond the example of our sires digress,And claim a right to scamper and run wide,Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide.The world and I fortuitously met;I owed a trifle, and have paid the debt;She did me wrong, I recompensed the deed,And, having struck the balance, now proceed.Perhaps, however, as some years have pass’d Since she and I conversed together last,And I have lived recluse in rural shades,Which seldom a distinct report pervades,Great changes and new manners have occurr’d,And blest reforms that I have never heard,And she may now be as discreet and wise,As once absurd in all discerning eyes.Sobriety perhaps may now be foundWhere once intoxication press’d the ground;The subtle and injurious may be just,And he grown chaste that was the slave of lust;Arts once esteem’d may be with shame dismiss’d:Charity may relax the miser’s fist;The gamester may have cast his cards away,Forgot to curse, and only kneel to pray.It has indeed been told me (with what weight,How credibly, ‘tis hard for me to state),That fables old, that seem’d for ever mute,Revived, are hastening into fresh repute,And gods and goddesses, discarded long,Like useless lumber or a stroller’s song,Are bringing into vogue their heathen train,And Jupiter bids fair to rule again;That certain feasts are instituted now,Where Venus hears the lover’s tender vow;That all Olympus through the country roves,To consecrate our few remaining groves,And Echo learns politely to repeatThe praise of names for ages obsolete;That, having proved the weakness, it should seem,Of revelations ineffectual beam,To bring the passions under sober sway,And give the moral springs their proper play,They mean to try what may at last be done,By stout substantial gods of wood and stone,And whether Roman rites may not produceThe virtues of old Rome for English use.May such success attend the pious plan,May Mercury once more embellish man.Grace him again with long-forgotten arts,Reclaim his taste, and brighten up his parts,Make him athletic as in days of old,Learn’d at the bar, in the palaestra bold,Divest the rougher sex of female airs,And teach the softer not to copy theirs:The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught,Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought.‘Tis time, however, if the case stands thus,For us plain folks, and all who side with us,To build our altar, confident and bold,And say, as stern Elijah said of old,The strife now stands upon a fair award,If Israel’s Lord be God, then serve the Lord:If he be silent, faith is all a whim,Then Baal is the God, and worship him.Digression is so much in modern use,Thought is so rare, and fancy so profuse,Some never seem so wide of their intent,As when returning to the theme they meant;As mendicants, whose business is to roam,Make every parish but their own their home.Though such continual zig-zags in a book,Such drunken reelings have an awkward look,And I had rather creep to what is true,Than rove and stagger with no mark in view;Yet to consult a little, seem’d no crime,The freakish humour of the present time:But now to gather up what seems dispersed,And touch the subject I design’d at first,May prove, though much beside the rules of art,Best for the public, and my wisest part.And first, let no man charge me, that I meanTo clothe in sable every social scene,And give good company a face severe,As if they met around a father’s bier;For tell some men that, pleasure all their bent,And laughter all their work, is life misspent,Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply,Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry.To find the medium asks some share of wit,And therefore ‘tis a mark fools never hit.But though life’s valley be a vale of tears,A brighter scene beyond that vale appears,Whose glory, with a light that never fades,Shoots between scatter’d rocks and opening shades,And, while it shews the land the soul desires,The language of the land she seeks inspires.Thus touch’d, the tongue receives a sacred cureOf all that was absurd, profane, impure;Held within modest bounds, the tide of speechPursues the course that truth and nature teach;No longer labours merely to produceThe pomp of sound, or tinkle without use:Where’er it winds, the salutary stream,Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme,While all the happy man possess’d before,The gift of nature, or the classic store,Is made subservient to the grand design,For which Heaven form’d the faculty divine.So, should an idiot, while at large he strays,Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays,With rash and awkward force the chords he shakes,And grins with wonder at the jar he makes;But let the wise and well-instructed handOnce take the shell beneath his just command,In gentle sounds it seems as it complain’dOf the rude injuries it late sustain’d,Till, tuned at length to some immortal song,It sounds Jehovah’s name, and pours his praise along.

The Task: Book V. -- The Winter Morning Walk

‘Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orbAscending, fires the horizon; while the clouds,That crowd away before the driving wind,More ardent as the disk emerges more,Resemble most some city in a blaze,Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting raySlides ineffectual down the snowy vale,And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,From every herb and every spiry bladeStretches a length of shadow o’er the field.Mine, spindling into longitude immense,In spite of gravity, and sage remarkThat I myself am but a fleeting shade,Provokes me to a smile. With eye askanceI view the muscular proportion’d limbTransform’d to a lean shank. The shapeless pairAs they design’d to mock me, at my sideTake step for step; and as I near approachThe cottage, walk along the plaster’d wall,Preposterous sight! the legs without the man.The verdure of the plain lies buried deepBeneath the dazzling deluge; and the bentsAnd coarser grass, upspearing o’er the rest,Of late unsightly and unseen, now shineConspicuous, and in bright apparel clad,And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb.The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleepIn unrecumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder; not like hungering man,Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek,And patient of the slow-paced swain’s delay.He from the stack carves out the accustom’d load,Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft,His broad keen knife into the solid mass:Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,With such undeviating and even forceHe severs it away: no needless care,Lest storms should overset the leaning pileDeciduous, or its own unbalanced weight.Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern’dThe cheerful haunts of man; to wield the axeAnd drive the wedge in yonder forest drear,From morn to eve his solitary task.Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed earsAnd tail cropp’d short, half lurcher and half cur,His dog attends him. Close behind his heelNow creeps he slow; and now, with many a friskWide scampering, snatches up the driften snowWith ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout;Then shakes his powder’d coat, and barks for joy.Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churlMoves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught,But now and then with pressure of his thumbTo adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube,That fumes beneath his nose: the trailing cloudStreams far behind him, scenting all the air.Now from the roost, or from the neighbouring pale,Where, diligent to catch the first fair gleamOf smiling day, they gossipp’d side by side,Come trooping at the housewife’s well-known callThe feather’d tribes domestic. Half on wing,And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood,Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge.The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves,To seize the fair occasion: well they eyeThe scatter’d grain, and thievishly resolvedTo escape the impending famine, often scaredAs oft return, a pert voracious kind.Clean riddance quickly made, one only careRemains to each, the search of sunny nook,Or shed impervious to the blast. Resign’d To sad necessity, the cock foregoesHis wonted strut; and, wading at their headWith well-consider’d steps, seems to resentHis alter’d gait and stateliness retrench’d.How find the myriads, that in summer cheerThe hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs,Due sustenance, or where subsist they now?Earth yields them nought: the imprison’d worm is safeBeneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbsLie cover’d close; and berry-bearing thorns,That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose),Afford the smaller minstrels no supply.The long protracted rigour of the yearThins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holesTen thousand seek an unmolested end,As instinct prompts; self-buried ere they die.The very rooks and daws forsake the fields,Where neither grub, nor root, nor earth-nut, nowRepays their labour more; and, perch’d aloftBy the way-side, or stalking in the path,Lean pensioners upon the traveller’s track,Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them,Of voided pulse or half-digested grain.The streams are lost amid the splendid blank,O’erwhelming all distinction. On the flood,Indurated and fix’d, the snowy weightLies undissolved; while silently beneath,And unperceived, the current steals away.Not so where, scornful of a check, it leapsThe mill-dam, dashes on the restless wheel,And wantons in the pebbly gulf below:No frost can bind it there; its utmost forceCan but arrest the light and smoky mistThat in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide.And see where it has hung the embroider’d banksWith forms so various, that no powers of art,The pencil or the pen, may trace the scene!Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high(Fantastic misarrangement!) on the roofLarge growth of what may seem the sparkling treesAnd shrubs of fairy land. The crystal dropsThat trickle down the branches, fast congeal’d,Shoot into pillars of pellucid length,And prop the pile they but adorn’d before.Here grotto within grotto safe defiesThe sunbeam; there, emboss’d and fretted wild,The growing wonder takes a thousand shapesCapricious, in which fancy seeks in vainThe likeness of some object seen before.Thus Nature works as if to mock at Art,And in defiance of her rival powers;By these fortuitous and random strokesPerforming such inimitable featsAs she with all her rules can never reach.Less worthy of applause though more admired,Because a novelty, the work of man,Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ!Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,The wonder of the North. No forest fellWhen thou wouldst build; no quarry sent its storesTo enrich thy walls: but thou didst hew the floods,And make thy marble of the glassy wave.In such a palace Aristæus foundCyrene, when he bore the plaintive taleOf his lost bees to her maternal ear:In such a palace Poetry might placeThe armoury of Winter; where his troops,The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet,Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail,And snow, that often blinds the traveller’s course,And wraps him in an unexpected tomb.Silently as a dream the fabric rose;No sound of hammer or of saw was there.Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted partsWere soon conjoin’d; nor other cement ask’dThan water interfused to make them one.Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues,Illumined every side; a watery lightGleam’d through the clear transparency, that seem’dAnother moon new risen, or meteor fallenFrom heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene.So stood the brittle prodigy; though smoothAnd slippery the materials, yet frost-boundFirm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within,That royal residence might well befit,For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreathsOf flowers, that fear’d no enemy but warmth,Blush’d on the panels. Mirror needed noneWhere all was vitreous; but in order dueConvivial table and commodious seat(What seem’d at least commodious seat) were there;Sofa, and couch, and high-built throne august.The same lubricity was found in all,And all was moist to the warm touch; a sceneOf evanescent glory, once a stream,And soon to slide into a stream again.Alas! ‘twas but a mortifying strokeOf undesign’d severity, that glanced(Made by a monarch) on her own estate,On human grandeur and the courts of kings.‘Twas transient in its nature, as in show‘Twas durable; as worthless, as it seem’dIntrinsically precious; to the footTreacherous and false; it smiled, and it was cold.

Great princes have great playthings. Some have play’dAt hewing mountains into men, and someAt building human wonders mountain high.Some have amused the dull sad years of life(Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad)With schemes of monumental fame; and soughtBy pyramids and mausolean pomp,Short-lived themselves, to immortalize their bones.Some seek diversion in the tented field,And make the sorrows of mankind their sport.But war’s a game which, were their subjects wise,Kings would not play at. Nations would do wellTo extort their truncheons from the puny handsOf heroes, whose infirm and baby mindsAre gratified with mischief, and who spoil,Because men suffer it, their toy, the World.

When Babel was confounded, and the greatConfederacy of projectors wild and vainWas split into diversity of tongues,Then, as a shepherd separates his flock,These to the upland, to the valley those,God drave asunder, and assign’d their lotTo all the nations. Ample was the boonHe gave them, in its distribution fairAnd equal; and he bade them dwell in peace.Peace was awhile their care: they plough’d, and sow’d,And reap’d their plenty without grudge or strife,But violence can never longer sleepThan human passions please. In every heartAre sown the sparks that kindle fiery war;Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze.Cain had already shed a brother’s blood;The deluge wash’d it out; but left unquench’dThe seeds of murder in the breast of man.Soon by a righteous judgment in the lineOf his descending progeny was foundThe first artificer of death; the shrewdContriver, who first sweated at the forge,And forced the blunt and yet unbloodied steelTo a keen edge, and made it bright for war.Him, Tubal named, the Vulcan of old times,The sword and falchion their inventor claim;And the first smith was the first murderer’s son.His art survived the waters; and ere long,When man was multiplied and spread abroadIn tribes and clans, and had begun to call These meadows and that range of hills his own,The tasted sweets of property begatDesire of more: and industry in some,To improve and cultivate their just demesne,Made others covet what they saw so fair.Thus war began on earth; these fought for spoil,And those in self-defence. Savage at firstThe onset, and irregular. At lengthOne eminent above the rest for strength, For stratagem, or courage, or for all,Was chosen leader; him they served in war,And him in peace, for sake of warlike deeds,Reverenced no less. Who could with him compare?Or who so worthy to control themselves,As he, whose prowess had subdued their foes?Thus war, affording field for the displayOf virtue, made one chief, whom times of peace,Which have their exigencies too, and callFor skill in government, at length made king.King was a name too proud for man to wearWith modesty and meekness; and the crown,So dazzling in their eyes who set it on,Was sure to intoxicate the brows it bound.It is the abject property of most,That, being parcel of the common mass,And destitute of means to raise themselves,They sink, and settle lower than they need.They know not what it is to feel withinA comprehensive faculty, that graspsGreat purposes with ease, that turns and wields,Almost without an effort, plans too vastFor their conception, which they cannot move.Conscious of impotence, they soon grow drunkWith gazing, when they see an able manStep forth to notice; and, besotted thus,Build him a pedestal, and say, “Stand there,And be our admiration and our praise.”They roll themselves before him in the dust,Then most deserving in their own accountWhen most extravagant in his applause,As if exalting him they raised themselves.Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their soundAnd sober judgment, that he is but man,They demi-deify and fume him so,That in due season he forgets it too.Inflated and astrut with self-conceit,He gulps the windy diet; and, ere long,Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinksThe world was made in vain, if not for him.Thenceforth they are his cattle: drudges, bornTo bear his burdens, drawing in his gears,And sweating in his service, his capriceBecomes the soul that animates them all.He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives,Spent in the purchase of renown for him,An easy reckoning; and they think the same.Thus kings were first invented, and thus kingsWere burnish’d into heroes, and becameThe arbiters of this terraqueous swamp;Storks among frogs, that have but croak’d and died.Strange, that such folly, as lifts bloated manTo eminence, fit only for a god,Should ever drivel out of human lips,E’en in the cradled weakness of the world!Still stranger much, that, when at length mankindHad reach’d the sinewy firmness of their youth,And could discriminate and argue wellOn subjects more mysterious, they were yetBabes in the cause of freedom, and should fearAnd quake before the gods themselves had made.But above measure strange, that neither proofOf sad experience, nor examples setBy some, whose patriot virtue has prevail’d,Can even now, when they are grown matureIn wisdom, and with philosophic deedsFamiliar, serve to emancipate the rest!Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone To reverence what is ancient, and can pleadA course of long observance for its use,That even servitude, the worst of ills,Because deliver’d down from sire to son,Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing!But is it fit, or can it bear the shockOf rational discussion, that a man,Compounded and made up like other menOf elements tumultuous, in whom lustAnd folly in as ample measure meet,As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules,Should be a despot absolute, and boastHimself the only freeman of his land?Should, when he pleases, and on whom he will,Wage war, with any or with no pretenceOf provocation given, or wrong sustain’d,And force the beggarly last doit, by meansThat his own humour dictates, from the clutchOf poverty, that thus he may procureHis thousands, weary of penurious life,A splendid opportunity to die?Say ye, who (with less prudence than of oldJotham ascribed to his assembled treesIn politic convention) put your trust In the shadow of a bramble, and, reclinedIn fancied peace beneath his dangerous branch,Rejoice in him, and celebrate his sway,Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence springsYour self-denying zeal, that holds it goodTo stroke the prickly grievance, and to hangHis thorns with streamers of continual praise?We too are friends to loyalty. We loveThe king who loves the law, respects his bounds,And reigns content within them: him we serveFreely and with delight, who leaves us free:But, recollecting still that he is man,We trust him not too far. King though he be,And king in England too, he may be weak,And vain enough to be ambitious still;May exercise amiss his proper powers,Or covet more than freemen choose to grant:Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours,To administer, to guard, to adorn the state,But not to warp or change it. We are his,To serve him nobly in the common cause,True to the death, but not to be his slaves.Mark now the difference, ye that boast your loveOf kings, between your loyalty and ours.We love the man, the paltry pageant you:We the chief patron of the commonwealth,You the regardless author of its woes:We for the sake of liberty a king,You chains and bondage for a tyrant’s sake.Our love is principle, and has its rootIn reason, is judicious, manly, free;Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod,And licks the foot that treads it in the dust.Were kingship as true treasure as it seems,Sterling, and worthy of a wise man’s wish,I would not be a king to be belovedCauseless, and daub’d with undiscerning praise,Where love is mere attachment to the throne,Not to the man who fills it as he ought.

Whose freedom is by sufferance, and at willOf a superior, he is never free.Who lives, and is not weary of a lifeExposed to manacles, deserves them well.The state that strives for liberty, though foil’d,And forced to abandon what she bravely sought,Deserves at least applause for her attempt,And pity for her loss. But that’s a causeNot often unsuccessful: power usurp’dIs weakness when opposed; conscious of wrong,‘Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight.But slaves that once conceive the glowing thoughtOf freedom, in that hope itself possessAll that the contest calls for; spirit, strength,The scorn of danger, and united hearts;The surest presage of the good they seek.

Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious moreTo France than all her losses and defeats,Old or of later date, by sea or land,Her house of bondage, worse than that of oldWhich God avenged on Pharaoh—the Bastille.Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts;Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair,That monarchs have supplied from age to ageWith music, such as suits their sovereign ears,The sighs and groans of miserable men!There’s not an English heart that would not leapTo hear that ye were fallen at last; to knowThat e’en our enemies, so oft employ’dIn forging chains for us, themselves were free.For he who values Liberty confinesHis zeal for her predominance withinNo narrow bounds; her cause engages himWherever pleaded. ‘Tis the cause of man.There dwell the most forlorn of human kind,Immured though unaccused, condemn’d untried,Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape!There, like the visionary emblem seenBy him of Babylon, life stands a stump,And, filleted about with hoops of brass,Still lives, though all his pleasant boughs are gone.To count the hour-bell, and expect no change;And ever, as the sullen sound is heard,Still to reflect, that, though a joyless noteTo him whose moments all have one dull pace,Ten thousand rovers in the world at largeAccount it music; that it summons some To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball:The wearied hireling finds it a releaseFrom labour; and the lover, who has chidIts long delay, feels every welcome strokeUpon his heart-strings, trembling with delight—To fly for refuge from distracting thoughtTo such amusements as ingenious woeContrives, hard shifting, and without her tools—To read engraven on the mouldy walls,In staggering types, his predecessor’s tale,A sad memorial, and subjoin his own—To turn purveyor to an overgorgedAnd bloated spider, till the pamper’d pestIs made familiar, watches his approach,Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend—To wear out time in numbering to and froThe studs that thick emboss his iron door;Then downward and then upward, then aslant,And then alternate; with a sickly hopeBy dint of change to give his tasteless taskSome relish; till the sum, exactly foundIn all directions, he begins again;—Oh comfortless existence! hemm’d aroundWith woes, which who that suffers would not kneelAnd beg for exile, or the pangs of death?That man should thus encroach on fellow-man,Abridge him of his just and native rights,Eradicate him, tear him from his holdUpon the endearments of domestic lifeAnd social, nip his fruitfulness and use,And doom him for perhaps a heedless wordTo barrenness, and solitude, and tears,Moves indignation, makes the name of king(Of king whom such prerogative can please)As dreadful as the Manichean god,Adored through fear, strong only to destroy.

‘Tis liberty alone that gives the flowerOf fleeting life its lustre and perfume;And we are weeds without it. All constraint,Except what wisdom lays on evil men,Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedesTheir progress in the road of science; blindsThe eyesight of Discovery; and begets,In those that suffer it, a sordid mindBestial, a meagre intellect, unfitTo be the tenant of man’s noble form.Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art,With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezedBy public exigence, till annual foodFails for the craving hunger of the state,Thee I account still happy, and the chiefAmong the nations, seeing thou art free:My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude,Replete with vapours, and disposes muchAll hearts to sadness, and none more than mine:Thine unadulterate manners are less softAnd plausible than social life requires,And thou hast need of discipline and artTo give thee what politer France receivesFrom nature’s bounty—that humane addressAnd sweetness, without which no pleasure isIn converse, either starved by cold reserve,Or flush’d with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl.Yet being free, I love thee: for the sakeOf that one feature can be well content,Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art,To seek no sublunary rest beside.But once enslaved, farewell! I could endureChains nowhere patiently; and chains at home,Where I am free by birthright, not at all.Then what were left of roughness in the grainOf British natures, wanting its excuseThat it belongs to freemen, would disgustAnd shock me. I should then with double painFeel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;And, if I must bewail the blessing lost,For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,I would at least bewail it under skiesMilder, among a people less austere;In scenes which, having never known me free,Would not reproach me with the loss I felt.Do I forebode impossible events,And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant I may!But the age of virtuous politics is past,And we are deep in that of cold pretence.Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere,And we too wise to trust them. He that takesDeep in his soft credulity the stampDesign’d by loud declaimers on the partOf liberty, themselves the slaves of lust,Incurs derision for his easy faithAnd lack of knowledge, and with cause enough:For when was public virtue to be foundWhere private was not? Can he love the wholeWho loves not part? He be a nation’s friendWho is, in truth, the friend of no man there?Can he be strenuous in his country’s causeWho slights the charities for whose dear sakeThat country, if at all, must be beloved?

‘Tis therefore sober and good men are sadFor England’s glory, seeing it wax paleAnd sickly, while her champions wear their heartsSo loose to private duty, that no brain,Healthful and undisturb’d by factious fumes,Can dream them trusty to the general weal.Such were not they of old, whose temper’d bladesDispersed the shackles of usurp’d control,And hew’d them link from link; then Albion’s sonsWere sons indeed; they felt a filial heartBeat high within them at a mother’s wrongs;And, shining each in his domestic sphere,Shone brighter still, once call’d to public view.‘Tis therefore many, whose sequester’d lotForbids their interference, looking on,Anticipate perforce some dire event;And, seeing the old castle of the state,That promised once more firmness, so assail’dThat all its tempest-beaten turrets shake, Stand motionless expectants of its fall.All has its date below; the fatal hourWas register’d in heaven ere time began.We turn to dust, and all our mightiest worksDie too: the deep foundations that we lay,Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains.We build with what we deem eternal rock:A distant age asks where the fabric stood;And in the dust, sifted and search’d in vain,The undiscoverable secret sleeps.

But there is yet a liberty, unsungBy poets, and by senators unpraised,Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the powersOf earth and hell confederate take away:A liberty which persecution, fraud,Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind:Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more.‘Tis liberty of heart, derived from Heaven,Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind,And seal’d with the same token. It is heldBy charter, and that charter sanction’d sureBy the unimpeachable and awful oathAnd promise of a God. His other giftsAll bear the royal stamp that speaks them his,And are august; but this transcends them all.His other works, the visible displayOf all-creating energy and might,Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the wordThat, finding an interminable spaceUnoccupied, has fill’d the void so well,And made so sparkling what was dark before.But these are not his glory. Man, ‘tis true,Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene,Might well suppose the Artificer divineMeant it eternal, had he not himselfPronounced it transient, glorious as it is,And, still designing a more glorious far,Doom’d it as insufficient for his praise.These, therefore, are occasional, and pass;Form’d for the confutation of the fool,Whose lying heart disputes against a God;That office served, they must be swept away.Not so the labours of his love: they shineIn other heavens than these that we behold,And fade not. There is paradise that fearsNo forfeiture, and of its fruits he sendsLarge prelibation oft to saints below.Of these the first in order, and the pledgeAnd confident assurance of the rest,Is liberty: a flight into his arms,Ere yet mortality’s fine threads give way,A clear escape from tyrannizing lust,And full immunity from penal woe.

Chains are the portion of revolted man,Stripes, and a dungeon; and his body servesThe triple purpose. In that sickly, foul,Opprobrious residence he finds them all.Propense his heart to idols, he is held In silly dotage on created things,Careless of their Creator. And that lowAnd sordid gravitation of his powersTo a vile clod so draws him, with such forceResistless from the centre he should seek,That he at last forgets it. All his hopesTend downward; his ambition is to sink,To reach a depth profounder still, and stillProfounder, in the fathomless abyssOf folly, plunging in pursuit of death.But, ere he gain the comfortless reposeHe seeks, and aquiescence of his soul,In heaven-renouncing exile, he endures—What does he not, from lusts opposed in vain,And self-reproaching conscience? He foreseesThe fatal issue to his health, fame, peace,Fortune, and dignity; the loss of allThat can ennoble man, and make frail life,Short as it is, supportable. Still worse,Far worse than all the plagues, with which his sinsInfect his happiest moments, he forebodesAges of hopeless misery. Future death,And death still future. Not a hasty stroke,Like that which sends him to the dusty grave:But unrepealable enduring death.Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears:What none can prove a forgery may be true;What none but bad men wish exploded must.That scruple checks him. Riot is not loudNor drunk enough to drown it. In the midstOf laughter his compunctions are sincere;And he abhors the jest by which he shines.Remorse begets reform. His master-lustFalls first before his resolute rebuke,And seems dethroned and vanquish’d. Peace ensues,But spurious and short-lived; the puny childOf self-congratulating pride, begotOn fancied innocence. Again he falls,And fights again; but finds his best essayA presage ominous, portending stillIts own dishonour by a worse relapse.Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foil’d So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt,Scoffs at her own performance. Reason nowTakes part with appetite, and pleads the causePerversely, which of late she so condemn’d;With shallow shifts and old devices, wornAnd tatter’d in the service of debauch,Covering his shame from his offended sight.

“Hath God indeed given appetites to man,And stored the earth so plenteously with meansTo gratify the hunger of his wish;And doth he reprobate, and will he damnThe use of his own bounty? making firstSo frail a kind, and then enacting lawsSo strict, that less than perfect must despair?Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truthDishonours God, and makes a slave of man.Do they themselves, who undertake for hireThe teacher’s office, and dispense at largeTheir weekly dole of edifying strains,Attend to their own music? have they faithIn what, with such solemnity of toneAnd gesture, they propound to our belief?Nay—conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voiceIs but an instrument, on which the priestMay play what tune he pleases. In the deed,The unequivocal, authentic deed,We find sound argument, we read the heart.”

Such reasonings (if that name must needs belongTo excuses in which reason has no part)Serve to compose a spirit well inclinedTo live on terms of amity with vice,And sin without disturbance. Often urged(As often as libidinous discourseExhausted, he resorts to solemn themesOf theological and grave import),They gain at last his unreserved assent;Till harden’d his heart’s temper in the forgeOf lust, and on the anvil of despair,He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing movesOr nothing much, his constancy in ill;Vain tampering has but foster’d his disease;‘Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death.Haste now, philosopher, and set him free.Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hearOf rectitude and fitness, moral truthHow lovely, and the moral sense how sure,Consulted and obey’d, to guide his stepsDirectly to the first and only fair.Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powersOf rant and rhapsody in virtue’s praise:Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand,And with poetic trappings grace thy prose,Till it outmantle all the pride of verse.—Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high-sounding brass,Smitten in vain! such music cannot charmThe eclipse that intercepts truth’s heavenly beam,And chills and darkens a wide wandering soul.The still small voice is wanted. He must speak,Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect;Who calls for things that are not, and they come.

Grace makes the slave a freeman. ‘Tis a changeThat turns to ridicule the turgid speechAnd stately tone of moralists, who boast,As if, like him of fabulous renown,They had indeed ability to smoothThe shag of savage nature, and were eachAn Orpheus, and omnipotent in song.But transformation of apostate manFrom fool to wise, from earthly to divine,Is work for Him that made him. He alone,And He by means in philosophic eyesTrivial and worthy of disdain, achievesThe wonder; humanizing what is bruteIn the lost kind, extracting from the lipsOf asps their venom, overpowering strengthBy weakness, and hostility by love.

Patriots have toil’d, and in their country’s causeBled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve,Receive proud recompence. We give in chargeTheir names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse,Proud of the treasure, marches with it downTo latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn,Gives bond in stone and ever-during brassTo guard them, and to immortalize her trust:But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid,To those who, posted at the shrine of Truth,Have fallen in her defence. A patriot’s blood,Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed,And for a time ensure to his loved land,The sweets of liberty and equal laws;But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize,And win it with more pain. Their blood is shedIn confirmation of the noblest claim—Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,To walk with God, to be divinely free,To soar, and to anticipate the skies.Yet few remember them. They lived unknownTill persecution dragg’d them into fame,And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew—No marble tells us whither. With their namesNo bard embalms and sanctifies his song:And history, so warm on meaner themes,Is cold on this. She execrates indeedThe tyranny that doom’d them to the fire,But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.

He is the freeman whom the truth makes free,And all are slaves beside. There’s not a chainThat hellish foes, confederate for his harm,Can wind around him, but he casts it offWith as much ease as Samson his green withes.He looks abroad into the varied fieldOf nature, and, though poor perhaps, comparedWith those whose mansions glitter in his sight,Calls the delightful scenery all his own.His are the mountains, and the valleys his.And all the resplendent rivers. His to enjoyWith a propriety that none can feel,But who, with filial confidence inspired,Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye,And smiling say—”My Father made them all!”Are they not his by a peculiar right,And by an emphasis of interest his,Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mindWith worthy thoughts of that unwearied loveThat plann’d, and built, and still upholds a worldSo clothed with beauty for rebellious man?Yes—ye may fill your garners, ye that reapThe loaded soil, and ye may waste much goodIn senseless riot; but ye will not find,In feast or in the chase, in song or dance,A liberty like his who, unimpeach’dOf usurpation, and to no man’s wrong,Appropriates nature as his Father’s work,And has a richer use of yours than you.He is indeed a freeman. Free by birthOf no mean city; plann’d or e’er the hillsWere built, the fountains open’d, or the seaWith all his roaring multitude of waves.His freedom is the same in every state;And no condition of this changeful life,So manifold in cares, whose every dayBrings its own evil with it, makes it less:For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, Nor penury, can cripple or confine.No nook so narrow but he spreads them thereWith ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds His body bound; but knows not what a rangeHis spirit takes, unconscious of a chain;And that to bind him is a vain attempt,Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells.

Acquaint thyself with God, if thou wouldst tasteHis works. Admitted once to his embrace,Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before;Thine eye shall be instructed; and thine heart,Made pure, shall relish, with divine delightTill then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought.Brutes graze the mountain-top, with faces prone,And eyes intent upon the scanty herbIt yields them; or, recumbent on its brow,Ruminate heedless of the scene outspreadBeneath, beyond, and stretching far awayFrom inland regions to the distant main.Man views it, and admires; but rests contentWith what he views. The landscape has his praise,But not its Author. Unconcern’d who form’d The paradise he sees, he finds it such,And, such well pleased to find it, asks no more.Not so the mind that has been touch’d from Heaven,And in the school of sacred wisdom taughtTo read his wonders, in whose thought the world,Fair as it is, existed ere it was.Not for its own sake merely, but for hisMuch more who fashion’d it, he gives it praise;Praise that, from earth resulting, as it ought,To earth’s acknowledged Sovereign, finds at onceIts only just proprietor in Him.The soul that sees him or receives sublimedNew faculties, or learns at least to employ More worthily the powers she own’d before,Discerns in all things what, with stupid gazeOf ignorance, till then she overlook’d,A ray of heavenly light, gilding all formsTerrestrial in the vast and the minute;The unambiguous footsteps of the God,Who gives its lustre to an insect’s wing,And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds.Much conversant with Heaven, she often holdsWith those fair ministers of light to man,That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp,Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were theyWith which Heaven rang, when every star, in hasteTo gratulate the new-created earth,Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of GodShouted for joy.—”Tell me, ye shining hosts,That navigate a sea that knows no storms,Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud,If from your elevation, whence ye viewDistinctly scenes invisible to man,And systems, of whose birth no tidings yetHave reach’d this nether world, ye spy a raceFavour’d as ours; transgressors from the womb,And hasting to a grave, yet doom’d to rise,And to possess a brighter heaven than yours?As one who long detain’d on foreign shoresPants to return, and when he sees afarHis country’s weather-bleach’d and batter’d rocks,From the green wave emerging, darts an eyeRadiant with joy towards the happy land;So I with animated hopes behold,And many an aching wish, your beamy fires,That show like beacons in the blue abyss,Ordain’d to guide the embodied spirit homeFrom toilsome life to never-ending rest.Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desiresThat give assurance of their own success,And that, infused from Heaven, must thither tend.”

So reads he nature, whom the lamp of truthIlluminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word!Which whoso sees no longer wanders lost,With intellects bemazed in endless doubt,But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built,With means that were not till by thee employ’d,Worlds that had never been hadst thou in strengthBeen less, or less benevolent than strong.They are thy witnesses, who speak thy powerAnd goodness infinite, but speak in earsThat hear not, or receive not their report.In vain thy creatures testify of thee,Till thou proclaim thyself. Theirs is indeedA teaching voice: but ‘tis the praise of thineThat whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn,And with the boon gives talent for its use.Till thou art heard, imaginations vainPossess the heart, and fables false as hell,Yet deem’d oracular, lure down to deathThe uninform’d and heedless souls of men.We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blind,The glory of thy work; which yet appearsPerfect and unimpeachable of blame,Challenging human scrutiny, and provedThen skilful most when most severely judged.But chance is not; or is not where thou reign’st;Thy providence forbids that fickle power(If power she be that works but to confound)To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws.Yet thus we dote, refusing while we canInstruction, and inventing to ourselvesGods such as guilt makes welcome; gods that sleep,Or disregard our follies, or that sitAmused spectators of this bustling stage.Thee we reject, unable to abideThy purity, till pure as thou art pure;Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause,For which we shunn’d and hated thee before.Then we are free. Then liberty, like day,Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heavenFires all the faculties with glorious joy.A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not,Till thou hast touch’d them; ‘tis the voice of song,A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works;Which he that hears it with a shout repeats,And adds his rapture to the general praise.In that blest moment Nature, throwing wide Her veil opaque, discloses with a smileThe Author of her beauties, who, retiredBehind his own creation, works unseenBy the impure, and hears his power denied.Thou art the source and centre of all minds,Their only point of rest, eternal Word!From thee departing they are lost, and roveAt random without honour, hope, or peace.From thee is all that soothes the life of man,His high endeavour, and his glad success,His strength to suffer, and his will to serve.But, O thou bounteous Giver of all good,Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown!Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor;And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.

Tirocinium; Or, A Review Of Schools

It is not from his form, in which we traceStrength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace,That man, the master of this globe, derivesHis right of empire over all that lives.That form, indeed, the associate of a mindVast in its powers, ethereal in its kind,That form, the labour of Almighty skill,Framed for the service of a freeborn will,Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control,But borrows all its grandeur from the soul.Hers is the state, the splendour, and the throne,An intellectual kingdom, all her own.For her the memory fills her ample pageWith truths pour’d down from every distant age;For her amasses an unbounded store,The wisdom of great nations, now no more;Though laden, not encumber’d with her spoil;Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil;When copiously supplied, then most enlarged;Still to be fed, and not to be surcharged.For her the Fancy, roving unconfined,The present muse of every pensive mind,Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hueTo Nature’s scenes than Nature ever knew.At her command winds rise and waters roar,Again she lays them slumbering on the shore;With flower and fruit the wilderness supplies,Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise.For her the Judgment, umpire in the strifeThat Grace and Nature have to wage through life,Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill,Appointed sage preceptor to the Will,Condemns, approves, and, with a faithful voice,Guides the decision of a doubtful choice.Why did the fiat of a God give birthTo yon fair Sun and his attendant Earth?And, when descending he resigns the skies,Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise,Whom Ocean feels through all his countless waves,And owns her power on every shore he laves?Why do the seasons still enrich the year,Fruitful and young as in their first career?Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees,Rock’d in the cradle of the western breeze:Summer in haste the thriving charge receivesBeneath the shade of her expanded leaves,Till Autumn’s fiercer heats and plenteous dewsDye them at last in all their glowing hues.—‘Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste,Power misemploy’d, munificence misplaced,Had not its Author dignified the plan,And crown’d it with the majesty of man.Thus form’d, thus placed, intelligent, and taught,Look where he will, the wonders God has wrought,The wildest scorner of his Maker’s lawsFinds in a sober moment time to pause,To press the important question on his heart,“Why form’d at all, and wherefore as thou art?”If man be what he seems, this hour a slave,The next mere dust and ashes in the grave;Endued with reason only to descryHis crimes and follies with an aching eye;With passions, just that he may prove, with pain,The force he spends against their fury vain;And if, soon after having burnt, by turns,With every lust with which frail Nature burns,His being end where death dissolves the bond,The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond;Then he, of all that Nature has brought forth,Stands self-impeach’d the creature of least worth,And, useless while he lives, and when he dies,Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies.Truths that the learn’d pursue with eager thoughtAre not important always as dear-bought,Proving at last, though told in pompous strains,A childish waste of philosophic pains;But truths on which depends our main concern,That ‘tis our shame and misery not to learn,Shine by the side of every path we treadWith such a lustre, he that runs may read.‘Tis true that, if to trifle life awayDown to the sunset of their latest day,Then perish on futurity’s wide shoreLike fleeting exhalations, found no more,Were all that Heaven required of human kind,And all the plan their destiny design’d,What none could reverence all might justly blame,And man would breathe but for his Maker’s shame.But reason heard, and nature well perused,At once the dreaming mind is disabused.If all we find possessing earth, sea, air,Reflect His attributes who placed them there,Fulfil the purpose, and appear design’dProofs of the wisdom of the all-seeing mind,‘Tis plain the creature, whom he chose to investWith kingship and dominion o’er the rest,Received his nobler nature, and was madeFit for the power in which he stands array’d;That first, or last, hereafter, if not here,He too might make his author’s wisdom clear,Praise him on earth, or, obstinately dumb,Suffer his justice in a world to come.This once believed, ‘twere logic misappliedTo prove a consequence by none denied,That we are bound to cast the minds of youthBetimes into the mould of heavenly truth,That taught of God they may indeed be wise,Nor ignorantly wandering miss the skies.In early days the conscience has in mostA quickness, which in later life is lost:Preserved from guilt by salutary fears,Or guilty, soon relenting into tears.Too careless often, as our years proceed,What friends we sort with, or what books we read,Our parents yet exert a prudent careTo feed our infant minds with proper fare;And wisely store the nursery by degreesWith wholesome learning, yet acquired with ease.Neatly secured from being soil’d or tornBeneath a pane of thin translucent horn,A book (to please us at a tender age‘Tis call’d a book, though but a single page)Presents the prayer the Saviour deign’d to teach,Which children use, and parsons—when they preach.Lisping our syllables, we scramble nextThrough moral narrative, or sacred text;And learn with wonder how this world began,Who made, who marr’d, and who has ransom’d man:Points which, unless the Scripture made them plain,The wisest heads might agitate in vain.O thou, whom, borne on fancy’s eager wingBack to the season of life’s happy spring,I pleased remember, and, while memory yetHolds fast her office here, can ne’er forget;Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told taleSweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail;Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style,May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile;Witty, and well employ’d, and, like thy Lord,Speaking in parables his slighted word;I name thee not, lest so despised a nameShould move a sneer at thy deserved fame;Yet e’en in transitory life’s late day,That mingles all my brown with sober grey,Revere the man whose Pilgrim marks the road,And guides the Progress of the soul to God.‘Twere well with most, if books that could engageTheir childhood pleased them at a riper age;The man, approving what had charm’d the boy,Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy,And not with curses on his heart, who stoleThe gem of truth from his unguarded soul.The stamp of artless piety impress’dBy kind tuition on his yielding breast,The youth, now bearded and yet pert and raw,Regards with scorn, though once received with awe;And, warp’d into the labyrinth of lies,That babblers, call’d philosophers, devise,Blasphemes his creed, as founded on a planReplete with dreams, unworthy of a man.Touch but his nature in its ailing part,Assert the native evil of his heart,His pride resents the charge, although the proofRise in his forehead, and seem rank enough:Point to the cure, describe a Saviour’s crossAs God’s expedient to retrieve his loss,The young apostate sickens at the view,And hates it with the malice of a Jew.How weak the barrier of mere nature proves,Opposed against the pleasures nature loves!While self-betray’d, and wilfully undone,She longs to yield, no sooner woo’d than won.Try now the merits of this blest exchangeOf modest truth for wit’s eccentric range.Time was, he closed as he began the day,With decent duty, not ashamed to pray;The practice was a bond upon his heart,A pledge he gave for a consistent part;Nor could he dare presumptuously displeaseA power confess’d so lately on his knees.But now farewell all legendary tales,The shadows fly, philosophy prevails;Prayer to the winds, and caution to the waves;Religion makes the free by nature slaves.Priests have invented, and the world admiredWhat knavish priests promulgate as inspired;Till Reason, now no longer overawed,Resumes her powers, and spurns the clumsy fraud;And, common sense diffusing real day,The meteor of the Gospel dies away.Such rhapsodies our shrewd discerning youthLearn from expert inquirers after truth;Whose only care, might truth presume to speak,Is not to find what they profess to seek.And thus, well tutor’d only while we shareA mother’s lectures and a nurse’s care;And taught at schools much mythologic stuff,But sound religion sparingly enough;Our early notices of truth disgraced,Soon lose their credit, and are all effaced.Would you your son should be a sot or dunce,Lascivious, headstrong, or all these at once;That in good time the stripling’s finish’d tasteFor loose expense and fashionable wasteShould prove your ruin, and his own at last;Train him in public with a mob of boys,Childish in mischief only and in noise,Else of a mannish growth, and five in tenIn infidelity and lewdness men.There shall he learn, ere sixteen winters old,That authors are most useful pawn’d or sold;That pedantry is all that schools impart,But taverns teach the knowledge of the heart;There waiter Dick, with bacchanalian lays,Shall win his heart, and have his drunken praise,His counsellor and bosom friend shall prove,And some street-pacing harlot his first love.Schools, unless discipline were doubly strong,Detain their adolescent charge too long;The management of tyros of eighteenIs difficult, their punishment obscene.The stout tall captain, whose superior sizeThe minor heroes view with envious eyes,Becomes their pattern, upon whom they fixTheir whole attention, and ape all his tricks.His pride, that scorns to obey or to submit,With them is courage; his effrontery wit.His wild excursions, window-breaking feats,Robbery of gardens, quarrels in the streets,His hairbreadth ‘scapes, and all his daring schemes,Transport them, and are made their favourite themes.In little bosoms such achievements strikeA kindred spark: they burn to do the like.Thus, half accomplish’d ere he yet beginTo show the peeping down upon his chin;And, as maturity of years comes on,Made just the adept that you design’d your son;To ensure the perseverance of his course,And give your monstrous project all its force,Send him to college. If he there be tamed,Or in one article of vice reclaim’d,Where no regard of ordinances is shownOr look’d for now, the fault must be his own.Some sneaking virtue lurks in him, no doubt,Where neither strumpets’ charms, nor drinking bout,Nor gambling practices can find it out.Such youths of spirit, and that spirit too,Ye nurseries of our boys, we owe to you:Though from ourselves the mischief more proceeds,For public schools ‘tis public folly feeds.The slaves of custom and establish’d mode,With packhorse constancy we keep the road,Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells,True to the jingling of our leader’s bells.To follow foolish precedents, and winkWith both our eyes, is easier than to think;And such an age as ours balks no expense,Except of caution and of common sense;Else sure notorious fact, and proof so plain,Would turn our steps into a wiser train.I blame not those who, with what care they can,O’erwatch the numerous and unruly clan;Or, if I blame, ‘tis only that they darePromise a work of which they must despair.Have ye, ye sage intendants of the whole,A ubiquarian presence and control,Elisha’s eye, that, when Gehazi stray’d,Went with him, and saw all the game he play’d?Yes—ye are conscious; and on all the shelvesYour pupils strike upon have struck yourselves.Or if, by nature sober, ye had then,Boys as ye were, the gravity of men,Ye knew at least, by constant proofs address’dTo ears and eyes, the vices of the rest.But ye connive at what ye cannot cure,And evils not to be endured endure,Lest power exerted, but without success,Should make the little ye retain still less.Ye once were justly famed for bringing forthUndoubted scholarship and genuine worth;And in the firmament of fame still shinesA glory, bright as that of all the signs,Of poets raised by you, and statesmen, and divines.Peace to them all! those brilliant times are fled,And no such lights are kindling in their stead.Our striplings shine indeed, but with such raysAs set the midnight riot in a blaze;And seem, if judged by their expressive looks,Deeper in none than in their surgeons’ books.Say, muse (for education made the song,No muse can hesitate, or linger long),What causes move us, knowing, as we must,That these mémenageries all fail their trust,To send our sons to scout and scamper there,While colts and puppies cost us so much care?Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise,We love the play-place of our early days;The scene is touching, and the heart is stoneThat feels not at that sight, and feels at none.The wall on which we tried our graving skill,The very name we carved subsisting still;The bench on which we sat while deep employ’d,Though mangled, hack’d, and hew’d, not yet destroy’d;The little ones, unbutton’d, glowing hot,Playing our games, and on the very spot;As happy as we once, to kneel and drawThe chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw;To pitch the ball into the grounded hat,Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat;The pleasing spectacle at once excitesSuch recollection of our own delights,That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtainOur innocent sweet simple years again.This fond attachment to the well-known place,Whence first we started into life’s long race,Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway,We feel it e’en in age, and at our latest day.Hark! how the sire of chits, whose future shareOf classic food begins to be his care,With his own likeness placed on either knee,Indulges all a father’s heartfelt glee;And tells them, as he strokes their silver locks,That they must soon learn Latin, and to box;Then turning, he regales his listening wifeWith all the adventures of his early life;His skill in coachmanship, or driving chaise,In bilking tavern-bills, and spouting plays;What shifts he used, detected in a scrape,How he was flogg’d, or had the luck to escape;What sums he lost at play, and how he soldWatch, seals, and all—till all his pranks are told.Retracing thus his frolics (‘tis a nameThat palliates deeds of folly and of shame),He gives the local bias all its sway;Resolves that where he play’d his sons shall play,And destines their bright genius to be shownJust in the scene where he display’d his own.The meek and bashful boy will soon be taughtTo be as bold and forward as he ought;The rude will scuffle through with ease enough,Great schools suit best the sturdy and the rough.Ah, happy designation, prudent choice,The event is sure; expect it, and rejoice!Soon see your wish fulfill’d in either child,The pert made perter, and the tame made wild.The great indeed, by titles, riches, birth,Excused the incumbrance of more solid worth,Are best disposed of where with most successThey may acquire that confident address,Those habits of profuse and lewd expense,That scorn of all delights but those of sense,Which, though in plain plebeians we condemn,With so much reason, all expect from them.But families of less illustrious fame,Whose chief distinction is their spotless name,Whose heirs, their honours none, their income small,Must shine by true desert, or not at all,What dream they of, that, with so little careThey risk their hopes, their dearest treasure, there?They dream of little Charles or William gracedWith wig prolix, down flowing to his waist;They see the attentive crowds his talents draw,They hear him speak—the oracle of law.The father, who designs his babe a priest,Dreams him episcopally such at least;And, while the playful jockey scours the roomBriskly, astride upon the parlour broom,In fancy sees him more superbly rideIn coach with purple lined, and mitres on its side.Events improbable and strange as these,Which only a parental eye foresees,A public school shall bring to pass with ease.But how? resides such virtue in that air,As must create an appetite for prayer?And will it breathe into him all the zeal That candidates for such a prize should feel,To take the lead and be the foremost stillIn all true worth and literary skill?“Ah, blind to bright futurity, untaughtThe knowledge of the World, and dull of thought!Church-ladders are not always mounted bestBy learned clerks and Latinists profess’d.The exalted prize demands an upward look,Not to be found by poring on a book.Small skill in Latin, and still less in Greek,Is more than adequate to all I seek.Let erudition grace him, or not grace,I give the bauble but the second place;His wealth, fame, honours, all that I intend,Subsist and centre in one point—a friend.A friend, whate’er he studies or neglects,Shall give him consequence, heal all defects.His intercourse with peers and sons of peers—There dawns the splendour of his future years:In that bright quarter his propitious skiesShall blush betimes, and there his glory rise.Your Lordship, and Your Grace! what school can teachA rhetoric equal to those parts of speech?What need of Homer’s verse or Tully’s prose,Sweet interjections! if he learn but those?Let reverend churls his ignorance rebuke,Who starve upon a dog’s-ear’d Pentateuch,The parson knows enough who knows a duke.”Egregious purpose! worthily begunIn barbarous prostitution of your son;Press’d on his part by means that would disgraceA scrivener’s clerk, or footman out of place,And ending, if at last its end be gain’d,In sacrilege, in God’s own house profaned.It may succeed; and, if his sins should callFor more than common punishment, it shall;The wretch shall rise, and be the thing on earthLeast qualified in honour, learning, worth,To occupy a sacred, awful post,In which the best and worthiest tremble most.The royal letters are a thing of course,A king, that would, might recommend his horse;And deans, no doubt, and chapters, with one voice,As bound in duty, would confirm the choice.Behold your bishop! well he plays his part,Christian in name, and infidel in heart,Ghostly in office, earthly in his plan,A slave at court, elsewhere a lady’s man.Dumb as a senator, and as a priestA piece of mere church furniture at best;To live estranged from God his total scope,And his end sure, without one glimpse of hope.But, fair although and feasible it seem,Depend not much upon your golden dream;For Providence, that seems concern’d to exemptThe hallow’d bench from absolute contempt,In spite of all the wrigglers into place,Still keeps a seat or two for worth and grace;And therefore ‘tis, that, though the sight be rare,We sometimes see a Lowth or Bagot there.Besides, school friendships are not always found,Though fair in promise, permanent and sound;The most disinterested and virtuous minds,In early years connected, time unbinds,New situations give a different castOf habit, inclination, temper, taste;And he, that seem’d our counterpart at first,Soon shows the strong similitude reversed.Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are warm,And make mistakes for manhood to reform.Boys are, at best, but pretty buds unblown,Whose scent and hues are rather guess’d than known;Each dreams that each is just what he appears,But learns his error in maturer years,When disposition, like a sail unfurl’d,Shows all its rents and patches to the world.If, therefore, e’en when honest in design,A boyish friendship may so soon decline,‘Twere wiser sure to inspire a little heartWith just abhorrence of so mean a part,Than set your son to work at a vile tradeFor wages so unlikely to be paid.Our public hives of puerile resort,That are of chief and most approved report,To such base hopes, in many a sordid soul,Owe their repute in part, but not the whole.A principle, whose proud pretensions passUnquestion’d, though the jewel be but glass—That with a world, not often over-nice,Ranks as a virtue, and is yet a vice;Or rather a gross compound, justly tried,Of envy, hatred, jealousy, and pride—Contributes most, perhaps, to enhance their fame;And emulation is its specious name.Boys, once on fire with that contentious zeal,Feel all the rage that female rivals feel;The prize of beauty in a woman’s eyesNot brighter than in theirs the scholar’s prize.The spirit of that competition burnsWith all varieties of ill by turns;Each vainly magnifies his own success,Resents his fellow’s, wishes it were less,Exults in his miscarriage if he fail,Deems his reward too great if he prevail,And labours to surpass him day and night,Less for improvement than to tickle spite.The spur is powerful, and I grant its force;It pricks the genius forward in its course,Allows short time for play, and none for sloth;And, felt alike by each, advances both:But judge, where so much evil intervenes,The end, though plausible, not worth the means.Weigh, for a moment, classical desertAgainst a heart depraved and temper hurt;Hurt too perhaps for life; for early wrongDone to the nobler part affects it long;And you are staunch indeed in learning’s cause,If you can crown a discipline, that drawsSuch mischiefs after it, with much applause.Connexion form’d for interest, and endear’dBy selfish views, thus censured and cashier’d;And emulation, as engendering hate,Doom’d to a no less ignominious fate:The props of such proud seminaries fall,The Jachin and the Boaz of them all.Great schools rejected then, as those that swellBeyond a size that can be managed well,Shall royal institutions miss the bays,And small academies win all the praise?Force not my drift beyond its just intent,I praise a school as Pope a government;So take my judgment in his language dress’d,“Whate’er is best administer’d is best.”Few boys are born with talents that excel,But all are capable of living well;Then ask not, whether limited or large;But, watch they strictly, or neglect their charge?If anxious only that their boys may learn,While morals languish, a despised concern,The great and small deserve one common blame,Different in size, but in effect the same.Much zeal in virtue’s cause all teachers boast,Though motives of mere lucre sway the most;Therefore in towns and cities they abound,For there the game they seek is easiest found;Though there, in spite of all that care can do,Traps to catch youth are most abundant too.If shrewd, and of a well-constructed brain,Keen in pursuit, and vigorous to retain,Your son come forth a prodigy of skill;As, wheresoever taught, so form’d, he will;The pedagogue, with self-complacent air,Claims more than half the praise as his due share.But if, with all his genius, he betray,Not more intelligent than loose and gay,Such vicious habits as disgrace his name,Threaten his health, his fortune, and his fame;Though want of due restraint alone have bredThe symptoms that you see with so much dread;Unenvied there, he may sustain aloneThe whole reproach, the fault was all his own.Oh! ‘tis a sight to be with joy perused,By all whom sentiment has not abused;New-fangled sentiment, the boasted graceOf those who never feel in the right place;A sight surpass’d by none that we can show,Though Vestris on one leg still shine below;A father blest with an ingenuous son,Father, and friend, and tutor, all in one.How!—turn again to tales long since forgot,Aesop, and Phaedrus, and the rest?—Why not?He will not blush, that has a father’s heart,To take in childish plays a childish part;But bends his sturdy back to any toyThat youth takes pleasure in, to please his boy:Then why resign into a stranger’s handA task as much within your own command,That God and nature, and your interest too,Seem with one voice to delegate to you?Why hire a lodging in a house unknownFor one whose tenderest thoughts all hover round your own?This second weaning, needless as it is,How does it lacerate both your heart and his!The indented stick, that loses day by day,Notch after notch, till all are smoothed away,Bears witness, long ere his dismission come,With what intense desire he wants his home.But though the joys he hopes beneath your roofBid fair enough to answer in the proof,Harmless, and safe, and natural, as they are,A disappointment waits him even there:Arrived, he feels an unexpected change;He blushes, hangs his head, is shy and strangeNo longer takes, as once, with fearless ease,His favourite stand between his father’s knees,But seeks the corner of some distant seat,And eyes the door, and watches a retreat,And, least familiar where he should be most,Feels all his happiest privileges lost.Alas, poor boy!—the natural effectOf love by absence chill’d into respect.Say, what accomplishments, at school acquired,Brings he, to sweeten fruits so undesired?Thou well deserv’st an alienated son,Unless thy conscious heart acknowledge—none;None that, in thy domestic snug recess,He had not made his own with more address,Though some, perhaps, that shock thy feeling mind,And better never learn’d, or left behind.Add too, that, thus estranged, thou canst obtainBy no kind arts his confidence again;That here begins with most that long complaintOf filial frankness lost, and love grown faint,Which, oft neglected, in life’s waning yearsA parent pours into regardless ears.Like caterpillars, dangling under treesBy slender threads, and swinging in the breeze,Which filthily bewray and sore disgraceThe boughs in which are bred the unseemly race;While every worm industriously weavesAnd winds his web about the rivell’d leaves;So numerous are the follies that annoyThe mind and heart of every sprightly boy;Imaginations noxious and perverse,Which admonition can alone disperse.The encroaching nuisance asks a faithful hand,Patient, affectionate, of high command, To check the procreation of a breedSure to exhaust the plant on which they feed.‘Tis not enough that Greek or Roman page,At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage;E’en in his pastimes he requires a friendTo warn, and teach him safely to unbend;O’er all his pleasures gently to preside,Watch his emotions, and control their tide;And levying thus, and with an easy sway,A tax of profit from his very play,To impress a value, not to be erased,On moments squander’d else, and running all to waste.And seems it nothing in a father’s eyeThat unimproved those many moments fly?And is he well content his son should findNo nourishment to feed his growing mind,But conjugated verbs and nouns declined?For such is all the mental food purvey’dBy public hackneys in the schooling trade;Who feed a pupil’s intellect with storeOf syntax truly, but with little more;Dismiss their cares when they dismiss their flock,Machines themselves, and govern’d by a clock.Perhaps a father, blest with any brains,Would deem it no abuse, or waste of pains,To improve this diet, at no great expense,With savoury truth and wholesome common sense;To lead his son, for prospects of delight,To some not steep, though philosophic, height,Thence to exhibit to his wondering eyesYon circling worlds, their distance and their size,The moons of Jove, and Saturn’s belted ball,And the harmonious order of them all;To show him in an insect or a flowerSuch microscopic proof of skill and powerAs, hid from ages past, God now displaysTo combat atheists with in modern days;To spread the earth before him, and commend,With designation of the finger’s end,Its various parts to his attentive note,Thus bringing home to him the most remote;To teach his heart to glow with generous flame,Caught from the deeds of men of ancient fame;And, more than all, with commendation due,To set some living worthy in his view,Whose fair example may at once inspireA wish to copy what he must admire.Such knowledge, gain’d betimes, and which appears,Though solid, not too weighty for his years,Sweet in itself, and not forbidding sport,When health demands it, of athletic sort,Would make him—what some lovely boys have been,And more than one perhaps that I have seen—An evidence and reprehension bothOf the mere schoolboy’s lean and tardy growth.Art thou a man professionally tied,With all thy faculties elsewhere applied,Too busy to intend a meaner careThan how to enrich thyself, and next thine heir;Or art thou (as, though rich, perhaps thou art)But poor in knowledge, having none to impart:—Behold that figure, neat, though plainly clad;His sprightly mingled with a shade of sad;Not of a nimble tongue, though now and thenHeard to articulate like other men;No jester, and yet lively in discourse,His phrase well chosen, clear, and full of force;And his address, if not quite French in ease,Not English stiff, but frank, and form’d to please;Low in the world, because he scorns its arts;A man of letters, manners, morals, parts;Unpatronised, and therefore little known;Wise for himself and his few friends aloneIn him thy well-appointed proxy see,Arm’d for a work too difficult for thee;Prepared by taste, by learning, and true worth,To form thy son, to strike his genius forth;Beneath thy roof, beneath thine eye, to proveThe force of discipline when back’d by love;To double all thy pleasure in thy child,His mind inform’d, his morals undefiled.Safe under such a wing, the boy shall showNo spots contracted among grooms below,Nor taint his speech with meannesses, design’dBy footman Tom for witty and refined.There, in his commerce with liveried herd,Lurks the contagion chiefly to be fear’d;For since (so fashion dictates) all, who claimA higher than a mere plebeian fame,Find it expedient, come what mischief may,To entertain a thief or two in pay(And they that can afford the expense of more,Some half a dozen, and some half a score),Great cause occurs to save him from a bandSo sure to spoil him, and so near at hand;A point secured, if once he be suppliedWith some such Mentor always at his side.Are such men rare? perhaps they would aboundWere occupation easier to be found,Were education, else so sure to fail,Conducted on a manageable scale,And schools, that have outlived all just esteem,Exchanged for the secure domestic scheme.—But, having found him, be thou duke or earl,Show thou hast sense enough to prize the pearl,And, as thou wouldst the advancement of thine heirIn all good faculties beneath his care,Respect, as is but rational and just,A man deem’d worthy of so dear a trust.Despised by thee, what more can he expectFrom youthful folly than the same neglect?A flat and fatal negative obtainsThat instant upon all his future pains;His lessons tire, his mild rebukes offend,And all the instructions of thy son’s best friendAre a stream choked, or trickling to no end.Doom him not then to solitary meals;But recollect that he has sense, and feelsAnd that, possessor of a soul refined,An upright heart, and cultivated mind,His post not mean, his talents not unknown,He deems it hard to vegetate alone.And, if admitted at thy board he sit,Account him no just mark for idle wit;Offend not him, whom modesty restrainsFrom repartee, with jokes that he disdains;Much less transfix his feelings with an oath;Nor frown, unless he vanish with the cloth.—And, trust me, his utility may reachTo more than he is hired or bound to teach;Much trash unutter’d, and some ills undone,Through reverence of the censor of thy son.But, if thy table be indeed unclean,Foul with excess, and with discourse obscene,And thou a wretch, whom, following her old plan,The world accounts an honourable man,Because forsooth thy courage has been tried,And stood the test, perhaps on the wrong side;Though thou hadst never grace enough to proveThat any thing but vice could win thy love;—Or hast thou a polite, card-playing wife,Chain’d to the routs that she frequents for life;Who, just when industry begins to snore,Flies, wing’d with joy, to some coach-crowded door;And thrice in every winter throngs thine ownWith half the chariots and sedans in town;Thyself meanwhile e’en shifting as thou may’st;Not very sober though, nor very chaste;Or is thine house, though less superb thy rank,If not a scene of pleasure, a mere blank,And thou at best, and in thy soberest mood,A trifler vain, and empty of all good;—Though mercy for thyself thou canst have none,Here Nature plead, show mercy to thy son.Saved from his home, where every day brings forthSome mischief fatal to his future worth,Find him a better in a distant spot,Within some pious pastor’s humble cot,Where vile example (yours I chiefly mean,The most seducing, and the oftenest seen)May never more be stamp’d upon his breast,Not yet perhaps incurably impress’d.Where early rest makes early rising sure,Disease or comes not, or finds easy cure,Prevented much by diet neat and clean;Or, if it enter, soon starved out again:Where all the attention of his faithful host,Discreetly limited to two at most,May raise such fruits as shall reward his care,And not at last evaporate in air:Where, stillness aiding study, and his mindSerene, and to his duties much inclined,Not occupied in day dreams, as at home,Of pleasures past, or follies yet to come,His virtuous toil may terminate at lastIn settled habit and decided taste.—But whom do I advise? the fashion-led,The incorrigibly wrong, the deaf, the dead!Whom care and cool deliberation suitNot better much than spectacles a brute;Who if their sons some slight tuition share,Deem it of no great moment whose, or where;Too proud to adopt the thoughts of one unknown,And much too gay to have any of their own.But courage, man! methought the Muse replied,Mankind are various, and the world is wide:The ostrich, silliest of the feather’d kind,And form’d of God without a parent’s mind,Commits her eggs, incautious, to the dust,Forgetful that the foot may crush the trust;And, while on public nurseries they rely,Not knowing, and too oft not caring, why,Irrational in what they thus prefer,No few, that would seem wise, resemble her.But all are not alike. Thy warning voiceMay here and there prevent erroneous choice;And some perhaps, who, busy as they are,Yet make their progeny their dearest care(Whose hearts will ache, once told what ills may reachTheir offspring, left upon so wild a beach),Will need no stress of argument to enforceThe expedience of a less adventurous course:The rest will slight thy counsel, or condemn;But they have human feelings—turn to them.To you, then, tenants of life’s middle state,Securely placed between the small and great,Whose character yet undebauch’d, retainsTwo-thirds of all the virtue that remains,Who, wise yourselves, desire your sons should learnYour wisdom and your ways—to you I turn.Look round you on a world perversely blind;See what contempt is fallen on human kind;See wealth abused, and dignities misplaced,Great titles, offices, and trusts disgraced,Long lines of ancestry, renown’d of old,Their noble qualities all quench’d and cold;See Bedlam’s closeted and handcuff’d chargeSurpass’d in frenzy by the mad at large;See great commanders making war a trade,Great lawyers, lawyers without study made;Churchmen, in whose esteem their best employIs odious, and their wages all their joy,Who, far enough from furnishing their shelvesWith Gospel lore, turn infidels themselves;See womanhood despised, and manhood shamedWith infamy too nauseous to be named,Fops at all corners, ladylike in mien,Civeted fellows, smelt ere they are seen,Else coarse and rude in manners, and their tongueOn fire with curses, and with nonsense hung,Now flush’d with drunkenness, now with bunnydom pale,Their breath a sample of last night’s regale;See volunteers in all the vilest arts,Men well endow’d, of honourable parts,Design’d by Nature wise, but self-made fools;All these, and more like these, were bred at schools.And if it chance, as sometimes chance it will,That though school-bred the boy be virtuous still;Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark,Prove, rather than impeach, the just remark:As here and there a twinkling star descriedServes but to show how black is all beside.Now look on him, whose very voice in toneJust echoes thine, whose features are thine own,And stroke his polish’d cheek of purest red,And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head,And say, My boy, the unwelcome hour is come,When thou, transplanted from thy genial home,Must find a colder soil and bleaker air,And trust for safety to a stranger’s care;What character, what turn thou wilt assumeFrom constant converse with I know not whom;Who there will court thy friendship, with what views,And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose;Though much depends on what thy choice shall be,Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me.Canst thou, the tear just trembling on thy lids,And while the dreadful risk foreseen forbids;Free too, and under no constraining force,Unless the sway of custom warp thy course;Lay such a stake upon the losing side,Merely to gratify so blind a guide?Thou canst not! Nature, pulling at thine heart,Condemns the unfatherly, the imprudent part.Though wouldst not, deaf to Nature’s tenderest plea,Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea,Nor say, Go thither, conscious that there layA brood of asps, or quicksands in his way;Then, only govern’d by the self-same ruleOf natural pity, send him not to school.No—guard him better. Is he not thine own,Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone?And hopest thou not (‘tis every father’s hope)That, since thy strength must with thy years elope,And thou wilt need some comfort to assuageHealth’s last farewell, a staff of thine old age,That then, in recompence of all thy cares,Thy child shall show respect to thy grey hairs,Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft,And give thy life its only cordial left?Aware then how much danger intervenes,To compass that good end, forecast the means.His heart, now passive, yields to thy command;Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand;If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide,Nor heed what guests there enter and abide,Complain not if attachments lewd and baseSupplant thee in it and usurp thy place.But, if thou guard its sacred chambers sureFrom vicious inmates and delights impure,Either his gratitude shall hold him fast,And keep him warm and filial to the last;Or, if he prove unkind (as who can sayBut, being man, and therefore frail, he may?),One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart,Howe’er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part.Oh, barbarous! wouldst thou with a Gothic handPull down the schools—what!—all the schools i’ th’ land;Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooms,Or turn them into shops and auction-rooms?A captious question, sir (and yours is one),Deserves an answer similar, or none.Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ(Apprised that he is such) a careless boy,And feed him well, and give him handsome pay,Merely to sleep, and let them run astray?Survey our schools and colleges, and seeA sight not much unlike my simile.From education, as the leading cause,The public character its colour draws;Thence the prevailing manners take their cast,Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste.And though I would not advertise them yet,Nor write on each— This Building to be Let ,Unless the world were all prepared to embraceA plan well worthy to supply their place;Yet, backward as they are, and long have been,To cultivate and keep the morals clean(Forgive the crime), I wish them, I confess,Or better managed, or encouraged less.

The Task: Book Vi. -- The Winter Walk At Noon

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds;And as the mind is pitch’d the ear is pleasedWith melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave:Some chord in unison with what we hearIs touch’d within us, and the heart replies.How soft the music of those village bells,Falling at intervals upon the earIn cadence sweet, now dying all away,Now pealing loud again, and louder still,Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!With easy force it opens all the cellsWhere Memory slept. Wherever I have heardA kindred melody, the scene recurs,And with it all its pleasures and its pains.Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,That in a few short moments I retrace(As in a map the voyager his course)The windings of my way through many years.Short as in retrospect the journey seems,It seem’d not always short; the rugged path,And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn,Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length.Yet, feeling present evils, while the pastFaintly impress the mind, or not at all,How readily we wish time spent revoked,That we might try the ground again, where once(Through inexperience, as we now perceive)We miss’d that happiness we might have found!Some friend is gone, perhaps his son’s best friend,A father, whose authority, in showWhen most severe, and mustering all its force,Was but the graver countenance of love:Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower,And utter now and then an awful voice,But had a blessing in its darkest frown,Threatening at once and nourishing the plant.We loved, but not enough, the gentle handThat rear’d us. At a thoughtless age, alluredBy every gilded folly, we renouncedHis sheltering side, and wilfully forewentThat converse, which we now in vain regret.How gladly would the man recall to lifeThe boy’s neglected sire! a mother too,That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still,Might he demand them at the gates of death.Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamedThe playful humour; he could now endure(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears)And feel a parent’s presence no restraint.But not to understand a treasure’s worthTill time has stolen away the slighted good,Is cause of half the poverty we feel,And makes the world the wilderness it is.The few that pray at all pray oft amiss,And, seeking grace to improve the prize they hold,Would urge a wiser suit than asking more.

The night was winter in its roughest mood;The morning sharp and clear. But now at noonUpon the southern side of the slant hills,And where the woods fence off the northern blast,The season smiles, resigning all its rage,And has the warmth of May. The vault is blueWithout a cloud, and white without a speckThe dazzling splendour of the scene below.Again the harmony comes o’er the vale;And through the trees I view the embattled towerWhence all the music. I again perceiveThe soothing influence of the wafted strains,And settle in soft musings as I treadThe walk, still verdant under oaks and elms,Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.The roof, though moveable through all its lengthAs the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,And, intercepting in their silent fallThe frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.No noise is here, or none that hinders thought.The redbreast warbles still, but is contentWith slender notes, and more than half suppress’d;Pleased with his solitude, and flitting lightFrom spray to spray, where’er he rests he shakesFrom many a twig the pendant drops of ice,That tinkle in the wither’d leaves below.Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,Charms more than silence. Meditation hereMay think down hours to moments. Here the heartMay give a useful lesson to the head,And Learning wiser grow without his books.Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one,Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwellsIn heads replete with thoughts of other men;Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,The mere materials with which Wisdom builds,Till smoothed and squared, and fitted to its place,Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.Knowledge is proud that he has learn’d so much;Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.Books are not seldom talismans and spells,By which the magic art of shrewder witsHolds an unthinking multitude enthrall’d.Some to the fascination of a nameSurrender judgment hoodwink’d. Some the styleInfatuates, and through labyrinth and wildsOf error leads them, by a tune entranced.While sloth seduces more, too weak to bearThe insupportable fatigue of thought,And swallowing therefore without pause or choiceThe total grist unsifted, husks and all.But trees, and rivulets whose rapid courseDefies the check of winter, haunts of deer,And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs,And lanes in which the primrose ere her timePeeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root,Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth,Not shy, as in the world, and to be wonBy slow solicitation, seize at onceThe roving thought, and fix it on themselves.

What prodigies can power divine performMore grand than it produces year by year,And all in sight of inattentive man?Familiar with the effect, we slight the cause,And, in the constancy of nature’s course,The regular return of genial months,And renovation of a faded world,See nought to wonder at. Should God again,As once in Gibeon, interrupt the raceOf the undeviating and punctual sun,How would the world admire! but speaks it lessAn agency divine to make him knowHis moment when to sink and when to rise,Age after age, than to arrest his course?All we behold is miracle; but, seenSo duly, all is miracle in vain.Where now the vital energy that moved,While summer was, the pure and subtle lymphThrough the imperceptible meandering veinsOf leaf and flower? It sleeps; and the icy touchOf unprolific winter has impress’d A cold stagnation on the intestine tide.But let the months go round, a few short months,And all shall be restored. These naked shoots,Barren as lances, among which the windMakes wintry music, sighing as it goes,Shall put their graceful foliage on again,And, more aspiring, and with ampler spread,Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost.Then each , in its peculiar honours clad,Shall publish, even to the distant eye,Its family and tribe. Laburnum, richIn streaming gold; syringa, ivory pure;The scentless and the scented rose; this red,And of an humbler growth, the other tall,And throwing up into the darkest gloomOf neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew,Her silver globes, light as the foamy surfThat the wind severs from the broken wave;The lilac, various in array, now white,Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now setWith purple spikes pyramidal, as if,Studious of ornament, yet unresolvedWhich hue she most approved, she chose them all:Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan,But well compensating her sickly looksWith never-cloying odours, early and late;Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarmOf flowers, like flies clothing her slender rods,That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too,Though leafless, well attired, and thick besetWith blushing wreaths, investing every spray;Althæa with the purple eye; the broom,Yellow and bright as bullion unalloy’d,Her blossoms; and luxuriant above allThe jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets,The deep dark green of whose unvarnish’d leafMakes more conspicuous, and illumines moreThe bright profusion of her scatter’d stars.—These have been, and these shall be in their day;And all this uniform, uncolour’d sceneShall be dismantled of its fleecy load,And flush into variety again.From dearth to plenty, and from death to life,Is Nature’s progress, when she lectures manIn heavenly truth; evincing, as she makesThe grand transition, that there lives and worksA soul in all things, and that soul is God.The beauties of the wilderness are his, That makes so gay the solitary place,Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms,That cultivation glories in, are his.He sets the bright procession on its way,And marshals all the order of the year;He marks the bounds which Winter may not pass,And blunts his pointed fury; in its case,Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ,Uninjured, with inimitable art;And, ere one flowery season fades and dies,Designs the blooming wonders of the next.

Some say that, in the origin of things,When all creation started into birth,The infant elements received a law,From which they swerve not since; that under forceOf that controlling ordinance they move,And need not His immediate hand, who firstPrescribed their course, to regulate it now.Thus dream they, and contrive to save a GodThe incumbrance of his own concerns, and spareThe great Artificer of all that movesThe stress of a continual act, the painOf unremitted vigilance and care,As too laborious and severe a task.So man, the moth, is not afraid, it seems,To span omnipotence, and measure might,That knows no measure, by the scanty ruleAnd standard of his own, that is to-day,And is not ere to-morrow’s sun go down.But how should matter occupy a charge,Dull as it is, and satisfy a lawSo vast in its demands, unless impell’dTo ceaseless service by a ceaseless force,And under pressure of some conscious cause?The Lord of all, himself through all diffused,Sustains and is the life of all that lives.Nature is but a name for an effect,Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire,By which the mighty process is maintain’d,Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sightSlow circling ages are as transient days;Whose work is without labour; whose designsNo flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts;And whose beneficence no charge exhausts.Him blind antiquity profaned, not served,With self-taught rites, and under various names,Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan,And Flora, and Vertumnus; peopling earthWith tutelary goddesses and godsThat were not; and commending as they wouldTo each some province, garden, field, or grove.But all are under one. One spirit, HisWho wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows,Rules universal nature. Not a flowerBut shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain,Of his unrivall’d pencil. He inspiresTheir balmy odours, and imparts their hues,And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,In grains as countless as the seaside sands,The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth.Happy who walks with him! whom what he findsOf flavour or of scent in fruit or flower,Or what he views of beautiful or grandIn nature, from the broad majestic oakTo the green blade that twinkles in the sun,Prompts with remembrance of a present God.His presence, who made all so fair, perceivedMakes all still fairer. As with him no sceneIs dreary, so with him all seasons please.Though winter had been none, had man been true,And earth be punish’d for its tenant’s sake,Yet not in vengeance; as this smiling sky,So soon succeeding such an angry night,And these dissolving snows, and this clear streamRecovering fast its liquid music, prove.

Who then, that has a mind well strung and tunedTo contemplation, and within his reachA scene so friendly to his favourite task,Would waste attention at the chequer’d board,His host of wooden warriors to and froMarching and countermarching, with an eyeAs fix’d as marble, with a forehead ridgedAnd furrow’d into storms, and with a handTrembling, as if eternity were hung In balance on his conduct of a pin?Nor envies he aught more their idle sport,Who pant with application misappliedTo trivial joys, and pushing ivory ballsAcross a velvet level, feel a joyAkin to rapture, when the bauble findsIts destined goal of difficult access.Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noonTo miss, the mercer’s plague, from shop to shopWandering, and littering with unfolded silksThe polish’d counter, and approving none,Or promising with smiles to call again.Nor him who, by his vanity seduced,And soothed into a dream that he discernsThe difference of a Guido from a daub,Frequents the crowded auction: station’d thereAs duly as the Langford of the show,With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand,And tongue accomplish’d in the fulsome cantAnd pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease:Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls,He notes it in his book, then raps his box,Swears ‘tis a bargain, rails at his hard fateThat he has let it pass—but never bids.

Here unmolested, through whatever signThe sun proceeds, I wander. Neither mist,Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me,Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy.E’en in the spring and playtime of the year,That calls the unwonted villager abroadWith all her little ones, a sportive train,To gather kingcups in the yellow mead,And prink their hair with daisies, or to pickA cheap but wholesome salad from the brook,These shades are all my own. The timorous hare,Grown so familiar with her frequent guest,Scarce shuns me; and the stockdove unalarm’dSits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspendsHis long love-ditty for my near approach.Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm,That age or injury has hollow’d deep,Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves,He has outslept the winter, ventures forthTo frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun,The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play:He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,Ascends the neighboring beech; there whisks his brush,And perks his ears, and stamps, and cries aloud,With all the prettiness of feign’d alarm,And anger insignificantly fierce.

The heart is hard in nature, and unfitFor human fellowship, as being voidOf sympathy, and therefore dead alikeTo love and friendship both, that is not pleasedWith sight of animals enjoying life,Nor feels their happiness augment his own.The bounding fawn, that darts across the gladeWhen none pursues, through mere delight of heart,And spirits buoyant with excess of glee;The horse as wanton and almost as fleet,That skims the spacious meadow at full speed,Then stops and snorts, and, throwing high his heels,Starts to the voluntary race again;The very kine that gambol at high noon,The total herd receiving first from oneThat leads the dance a summons to be gay,Though wild their strange vagaries and uncouthTheir efforts, yet resolved with one consentTo give such act and utterance as they mayTo ecstacy too big to be suppress’d;—These, and a thousand images of bliss,With which kind Nature graces every scene,Where cruel man defeats not her design,Impart to the benevolent, who wishAll that are capable of pleasure pleased,A far superior happiness to theirs,The comfort of a reasonable joy.

Man scarce had risen, obedient to His callWho form’d him from the dust, his future grave,When he was crown’d as never king was since.God set the diadem upon his head,And angel choirs attended. Wondering stoodThe new-made monarch, while before him pass’d,All happy, and all perfect in their kind,The creatures, summon’d from their various hauntsTo see their sovereign, and confess his sway.Vast was his empire, absolute his power,Or bounded only by a law, whose force‘Twas his sublimest privilege to feelAnd own, the law of universal love.He ruled with meekness, they obey’d with joy;No cruel purpose lurk’d within his heart,And no distrust of his intent in theirs.So Eden was a scene of harmless sport,Where kindness on his part, who ruled the whole,Begat a tranquil confidence in all,And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear,But sin marr’d all; and the revolt of man,That source of evils not exhausted yet,Was punish’d with revolt of his from him.Garden of God, how terrible the changeThy groves and lawns then witness’d! Every heart,Each animal, of every name, conceivedA jealousy and an instinctive fear,And, conscious of some danger, either fledPrecipitate the loathed abode of man,Or growl’d defiance in such angry sort,As taught him too to tremble in his turn.Thus harmony and family accordWere driven from Paradise; and in that hourThe seeds of cruelty, that since have swell’dTo such gigantic and enormous growth,Were sown in human nature’s fruitful soil.Hence date the persecution and the painThat man inflicts on all inferior kinds,Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport,To gratify the frenzy of his wrath,Or his base gluttony, are causes goodAnd just in his account, why bird and beastShould suffer torture, and the streams be dyedWith blood of their inhabitants impaled.Earth groans beneath the burden of a warWaged with defenceless innocence, while he,Not satisfied to prey on all around,Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangsNeedless, and first torments ere he devours.Now happiest they that occupy the scenesThe most remote from his abhorr’d resort,Whom once, as delegate of God on earth,They fear’d, and as his perfect image loved.The wilderness is theirs, with all its caves,Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains,Unvisited by man. There they are free,And howl and roar as likes them, uncontroll’d;Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play.Woe to the tyrant, if he dare intrudeWithin the confines of their wild domain!The lion tells him—I am monarch here!And, if he spare him, spares him on the termsOf royal mercy, and through generous scornTo rend a victim trembling at his foot.In measure, as by force of instinct drawn,Or by necessity constrain’d, they liveDependent upon man; those in his fields,These at his crib, and some beneath his roof;They prove too often at how dear a rate He sells protection. Witness at his footThe spaniel dying for some venial fault,Under dissection of the knotted scourge;Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yellsDriven to the slaughter, goaded, as he runs,To madness; while the savage at his heelsLaughs at the frantic sufferer’s fury, spentUpon the guiltless passenger o’erthrown.He too is witness, noblest of the trainThat wait on man, the flight-performing horse:With unsuspecting readiness he takesHis murderer on his back, and, push’d all day,With bleeding sides and flanks that heave for life,To the far-distant goal, arrives and dies.So little mercy shows who needs so much!Does law, so jealous in the cause of man,Denounce no doom on the delinquent? None.He lives, and o’er his brimming beaker boasts(As if barbarity were high desert)The inglorious feat, and clamorous in praiseOf the poor brute, seems wisely to supposeThe honours of his matchless horse his own.But many a crime deem’d innocent on earthIs register’d in heaven; and these no doubtHave each their record, with a curse annex’d.Man may dismiss compassion from his heart,But God will never. When he charged the JewTo assist his foe’s down-fallen beast to rise;And when the bush-exploring boy that seizedThe young, to let the parent bird go free;Proved he not plainly that his meaner worksAre yet his care, and have an interest all,All, in the universal Father’s love?On Noah, and in him on all mankind,The charter was conferr’d, by which we holdThe flesh of animals in fee, and claimO’er all we feed on power of life and death.But read the instrument, and mark it well:The oppression of a tyrannous controlCan find no warrant there. Feed then, and yieldThanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin,Feed on the slain, but spare the living brute!

The Governor of all, himself to allSo bountiful, in whose attentive earThe unfledged raven and the lion’s whelpPlead not in vain for pity on the pangsOf hunger unassuaged, has interposed,Not seldom, his avenging arm, to smiteThe injurious trampler upon Nature’s law,That claims forbearance even for a brute.He hates the hardness of a Balaam’s heart;And, prophet as he was, he might not strikeThe blameless animal, without rebuke,On which he rode. Her opportune offenceSaved him, or the unrelenting seer had died.He sees that human equity is slackTo interfere, though in so just a cause;And makes the task his own. Inspiring dumbAnd helpless victims with a sense so keenOf injury, with such knowledge of their strength,And such sagacity to take revenge,That oft the beast has seem’d to judge the man.An ancient, not a legendary tale,By one of sound intelligence rehearsed(If such who plead for Providence may seemIn modern eyes), shall make the doctrine clear.

Where England, stretch’d towards the setting sun,Narrow and long, o’erlooks the western wave,Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner heOf God and goodness, atheist in ostent,Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce.He journey’d; and his chance was as he wentTo join a traveller, of far different note,Evander, famed for piety, for yearsDeserving honour, but for wisdom more.Fame had not left the venerable manA stranger to the manners of the youth,Whose face too was familiar to his view.Their way was on the margin of the land,O’er the green summit of the rocks, whose baseBeats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high.The charity that warm’d his heart was movedAt sight of the man monster. With a smile,Gentle and affable, and full of grace,As fearful of offending whom he wish’d Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truthsNot harshly thunder’d forth, or rudely press’d,But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet.“And doest thou dream,” the impenetrable manExclaimed, “that me the lullabies of age,And fantasies of dotards such as thou,Can cheat, or move a moment’s fear in me?Mark now the proof I give thee, that the braveNeed no such aids as superstition lends,To steel their hearts against the dread of death.”He spoke, and to the precipice at handPush’d with a madman’s fury. Fancy shrinks,And the blood thrills and curdles at the thoughtOf such a gulf as he design’d his grave.But though the felon on his back could dareThe dreadful leap, more rational, his steedDeclined the death, and wheeling swiftly round,Or e’er his hoof had press’d the crumbling verge,Baffled his rider, saved against his will.The frenzy of the brain may be redress’dBy medicine well applied, but without graceThe heart’s insanity admits no cure.Enraged the more by what might have reform’d His horrible intent, again he soughtDestruction, with a zeal to be destroy’d,With sounding whip, and rowels dyed in blood.But still in vain. The Providence, that meantA longer date to the far nobler beast,Spared yet again the ignobler for his sake.And now his prowess proved, and his sincereIncurable obduracy evinced,His rage grew cool: and pleased perhaps to have earn’d So cheaply the renown of that attempt,With looks of some complacence he resumedHis road, deriding much the blank amazeOf good Evander, still where he was leftFix’d motionless, and petrified with dread.So on they fared. Discourse on other themesEnsuing seem’d to obliterate the past;And tamer far for so much fury shown (As in the course of rash and fiery men),The rude companion smiled, as if transform’d.But ‘twas a transient calm. A storm was near,An unsuspected storm. His hour was come.The impious challenger of power divineWas now to learn that Heaven, though slow to wrath,Is never with impunity defied.His horse, as he had caught his master’s mood,Snorting, and starting into sudden rage,Unbidden, and not now to be controll’d,Rush’d to the cliff, and, having reach’d it, stood.At once the shock unseated him: he flewSheer o’er the craggy barrier; and, immersed Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not,The death he had deserved, and died alone.So God wrought double justice; made the fool The victim of his own tremendous choice,And taught a brute the way to safe revenge.

I would not enter on my list of friends(Though graced with polish’d manners and fine sense,Yet wanting sensibility) the manWho needlessly sets foot upon a worm.An inadvertent step may crush the snailThat crawls at evening in the public path:But he that has humanity, forewarn’d,Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight,And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes,A visitor unwelcome, into scenesSacred to neatness and repose, the alcove,The chamber, or refectory, may die:A necessary act incurs no blame.Not so when, held within their proper bounds,And guiltless of offence, they range the air,Or take their pastime in the spacious field:There they are privileged; and he that huntsOr harms them there is guilty of a wrong,Disturbs the economy of Nature’s realm,Who, when she form’d, design’d them an abode.The sum is this. If man’s convenience, health,Or safety interfere, his rights and claimsAre paramount, and must extinguish theirs.Else they are all—the meanest things that are,As free to live, and to enjoy that life,As God was free to form them at the first,Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all.Ye therefore, who love mercy, teach your sonsTo love it too. The spring-time of our yearsIs soon dishonour’d and defiled in mostBy budding ills, that ask a prudent handTo check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots,If unrestrain’d, into luxuriant growth,Than cruelty, most devilish of them all.Mercy to him that shows it is the ruleAnd righteous limitation of its act,By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man;And he that shows none, being ripe in years,And conscious of the outrage he commits,Shall seek it, and not find it, in his turn.

Distinguish’d much by reason, and still moreBy our capacity of grace divine,From creatures that exist but for our sake,Which, having served us, perish, we are heldAccountable; and God, some future day,Will reckon with us roundly for the abuseOf what he deems no mean or trivial trust.Superior as we are, they yet dependNot more on human help than we on theirs.Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were givenIn aid of our defects. In some are foundSuch teachable and apprehensive parts,That man’s attainments in his own concerns,Match’d with the expertness of the brutes in theirs,Are ofttimes vanquish’d and thrown far behind.Some show that nice sagacity of smell,And read with such discernment, in the portAnd figure of the man, his secret aim,That oft we owe our safety to a skillWe could not teach, and must despair to learn.But learn we might, if not too proud to stoopTo quadruped instructors, many a goodAnd useful quality, and virtue, too,Rarely exemplified among ourselves—Attachment never to be wean’d or changedBy any change of fortune; proof alikeAgainst unkindness, absence, and neglect;Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threatCan move or warp; and gratitude for smallAnd trivial favours, lasting as the lifeAnd glistening even in the dying eye.

Man praises man. Desert in arts or armsWins public honour; and ten thousand sitPatiently present at a sacred song,Commemoration -mad; content to hear(O wonderful effect of music’s power!)Messiah’s eulogy for Handel’s sake.But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve(For was it less, what heathen would have daredTo strip Jove’s statue of his oaken wreath,And hang it up in honour of a man?)—Much less might serve, when all that we designIs but to gratify an itching ear,And give the day to a musician’s praise.Remember Handel? Who, that was not bornDeaf as the dead to harmony, forgets,Or can, the more than Homer of his age?Yes—we remember him; and while we praise A talent so divine, remember tooThat His most holy book, from whom it came,Was never meant, was never used before,To buckram out the memory of a man.But hush!—the muse perhaps is too severe;And, with a gravity beyond the sizeAnd measure of the offence, rebukes a deedLess impious than absurd, and owing moreTo want of judgment than to wrong design.So in the chapel of old Ely House,When wandering Charles, who meant to be the third,Had fled from William, and the news was fresh,The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce,And eke did rear right merrily, two staves, Sung to the praise and glory of King George!—Man praises man; and Garrick’s memory next,When time hath somewhat mellow’d it, and madeThe idol of our worship while he livedThe god of our idolatry once more,Shall have its altar; and the world shall goIn pilgrimage to bow before his shrine.The theatre, too small, shall suffocateIts squeezed contents, and more than it admitsShall sigh at their exclusion, and returnUngratified: for there some noble lordShall stuff his shoulders with king Richard’s bunch,Or wrap himself in Hamlet’s inky cloak,And strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare,To show the world how Garrick did not act—For Garrick was a worshipper himself;He drew the liturgy, and framed the ritesAnd solemn ceremonial of the day,And call’d the world to worship on the banksOf Avon, famed in song. Ah, pleasant proofThat piety has still in human heartsSome place, a spark or two not yet extinct.The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths;The mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance;The mulberry-tree was hymn’d with dulcet airs;And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-treeSupplied such relics as devotion holdsStill sacred, and preserves with pious care.So ‘twas a hallow’d time: decorum reign’d,And mirth without offence. No few return’d,Doubtless much edified, and all refresh’d.—Man praises man. The rabble, all alive,From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes,Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day,A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes.Some shout him, and some hang upon his car,To gaze in his eyes, and bless him. Maidens waveTheir kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy;While others, not so satisfied, unhorseThe gilded equipage, and turning looseHis steeds, usurp a place they well deserve.Why? what has charm’d them? Hath he saved the state?No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No.Enchanting novelty, that moon at full,That finds out every crevice of the headThat is not sound and perfect, hath in theirsWrought this disturbance. But the wane is near,And his own cattle must suffice him soon.Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise,And dedicate a tribute, in its useAnd just direction sacred, to a thingDoom’d to the dust, or lodged already there.Encomium in old time was poets’ work!But poets, having lavishly long sinceExhausted all materials of the art,The task now falls into the public hand;And I, contented with an humble theme,Have pour’d my stream of panegyric downThe vale of Nature, where it creeps and windsAmong her lovely works with a secureAnd unambitious course, reflecting clear,If not the virtues, yet the worth, of brutes.And I am recompensed, and deem the toilsOf poetry not lost, if verse of mineMay stand between an animal and woe,And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.

The groans of Nature in this nether world,Which Heaven has heard for ages, have an end.Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung,Whose fire was kindled at the prophets’ lamp,The time of rest, the promised Sabbath, comes.Six thousand years of sorrow have well nighFulfill’d their tardy and disastrous courseOver a sinful world; and what remainsOf this tempestuous state of human thingsIs merely as the working of a seaBefore a calm, that rocks itself to rest:For He, whose car the winds are, and the cloudsThe dust that waits upon his sultry march,When sin hath moved him, and his wrath is hot,Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descendPropitious in his chariot paved with love;And what his storms have blasted and defacedFor man’s revolt, shall with a smile repair.

Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweetNot to be wrong’d by a mere mortal touch:Nor can the wonders it records be sungTo meaner music, and not suffer loss.But when a poet, or when one like me,Happy to rove among poetic flowers,Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at lastOn some fair theme, some theme divinely fair,Such is the impulse and the spur he feels,To give it praise proportion’d to its worth,That not to attempt it, arduous as he deemsThe labour, were a task more arduous still.

O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,Scenes of accomplish’d bliss! which who can see,Though but in distant prospect, and not feelHis soul refresh’d with foretaste of the joy?Rivers of gladness water all the earth,And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproachOf barrenness is past. The fruitful fieldLaughs with abundance; and the land, once lean,Or fertile only in its own disgrace,Exults to see its thistly curse repeal’d.The various seasons woven into one,And that one season an eternal spring,The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence,For there is none to covet, all are full.The lion, and the libbard, and the bearGraze with the fearless flocks; all bask at noonTogether, or all gambol in the shadeOf the same grove, and drink one common stream.Antipathies are none. No foe to manLurks in the serpent now: the mother sees,And smiles to see, her infant’s playful handStretch’d forth to dally with the crested worm,To stroke his azure neck, or to receiveThe lambent homage of his arrowy tongue.All creatures worship man, and all mankindOne Lord, one Father. Error has no place;That creeping pestilence is driven away;The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heartNo passion touches a discordant string,But all is harmony and love. DiseaseIs not: the pure and uncontaminate bloodHolds it due course, nor fears the frost of age.One song employs all nations; and all cry,“Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!”The dwellers in the vales and on the rocksShout to each other, and the mountain topsFrom distant mountains catch the flying joy;Till, nation after nation taught the strain,Earth rolls the rapturous Hosannah round.Behold the measure of the promise fill’d;See Salem built, the labour of a God;Bright as a sun, the sacred city shines;All kingdoms and all princes of the earthFlock to that light; the glory of all landsFlows into her; unbounded is her joy,And endless her increase. Thy rams are there,Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there;The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind,And Saba’s spicy groves, pay tribute there.Praise in all her gates: upon her walls,And in her streets, and in her spacious courts,Is heard salvation. Eastern Java thereKneels with the native of the farthest west;And Æthiopia spreads abroad the hand,And worships. Her report has travell’d forthInto all lands. From every clime they comeTo see thy beauty and to share thy joy,O Sion! an assembly such as earthSaw never, such as Heaven stoops down to see.

Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were oncePerfect, and all must be at length restored.So God has greatly purposed; who would elseIn his dishonour’d works himself endureDishonour, and be wrong’d without redress.Haste, then, and wheel away a shatter’d world,Ye slow-revolving seasons! we would see(A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet)A world that does not dread and hate his lawAnd suffer for its crime; would learn how fairThe creature is that God pronounces good,How pleasant in itself what pleases him.Here every drop of honey hides a sting;Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers;And e’en the joy that haply some poor heartDerives from heaven, pure as the fountain is,Is sullied in the stream, taking a taintFrom touch of human lips, at best impure.O for a world in principle as chasteAs this is gross and selfish! over whichCustom and prejudice shall bear no sway,That govern all things here, shouldering asideThe meek and modest Truth, and forcing herTo seek a refuge from the tongue of StrifeIn nooks obscure, far from the ways of men:Where Violence shall never lift the sword,Nor Cunning justify the proud man’s wrong,Leaving the poor no remedy but tears:Where he, that fills an office, shall esteemThe occasion it presents of doing goodMore than the perquisite: where Law shall speakSeldom, and never but as Wisdom promptsAnd Equity; not jealous more to guardA worthless form, than to decide aright:—Where Fashion shall not sanctify abuse,Nor smooth Good-breeding (supplemental grace)With lean performance ape the work of Love!

Come then, and, added to thy many crowns,Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth,Thou who alone art worthy! It was thineBy ancient covenant, ere Nature’s birth;And thou hast made it thine by purchase since,And overpaid its value with thy blood.Thy saints proclaim thee king; and in their hearts Thy title is engraven with a penDipp’d in the fountain of eternal love.Thy saints proclaim thee king; and thy delayGives courage to their foes, who, could they seeThe dawn of thy last advent, long desired,Would creep into the bowels of the hills,And flee for safety to the falling rocks.The very spirit of the world is tiredOf its own taunting question, ask’d so long,“Where is the promise of your Lord’s approach?”The infidel has shot his bolts away,Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none,He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoil’d,And aims them at the shield of Truth again.The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands,That hides divinity from mortal eyes;And all the mysteries to faith proposed,Insulted and traduced, are cast aside,As useless, to the moles and to the bats.They now are deem’d the faithful, and are praised,Who, constant only in rejecting thee,Deny thy Godhead with a martyr’s zeal,And quit their office for their error’s sake.Blind, and in love with darkness! yet e’en theseWorthy, compared with sycophants, who kneelThy name adoring, and then preach thee man!So fares thy church. But how thy church may fareThe world takes little thought. Who will may preach,And what they will. All pastors are alikeTo wandering sheep, resolved to follow none.Two gods divide them all—Pleasure and Gain:For these they live, they sacrifice to these,And in their service wage perpetual warWith Conscience and with thee. Lust in their heartsAnd mischief in their hands, they roam the earthTo prey upon each other: stubborn, fierce,High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace.Thy prophets speak of such; and, noting downThe features of the last degenerate times,Exhibit every lineament of these.Come then, and, added to thy many crowns,Receive yet one, as radiant as the rest,Due to thy last and most effectual work,Thy word fulfill’d, the conquest of a world!

He is the happy man whose life e’en nowShows somewhat of that happier life to come;Who, doom’d to an obscure but tranquil state,Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose,Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruitOf virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,Prepare for happiness; bespeak him oneContent indeed to sojourn while he mustBelow the skies, but having there his home.The world o’erlooks him in her busy searchOf objects, more illustrious in her view;And, occupied as earnestly as she,Though more sublimely, he o’erlooks the world.She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not;He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain.He cannot skim the ground like summer birdsPursuing gilded flies; and such he deemsHer honours, her emoluments, her joys.Therefore in Contemplation is his bliss,Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earthShe makes familiar with a heaven unseen,And shows him glories yet to be reveal’d.Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy’d,And censured oft as useless. Stillest streamsOft water fairest meadows, and the birdThat flutters least is longest on the wing.Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised,Or what achievements of immortal fameHe purposes, and he shall answer—None.His warfare is within. There, unfatigued,His fervent spirit labours. There he fights,And there obtains fresh triumphs o’er himself,And never-withering wreaths, compared with whichThe laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds.Perhaps the self-approving haughty world,That as she sweeps him with her whistling silksScarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see,Deems him a cipher in the works of God,Receives advantage from his noiseless hours,Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owesHer sunshine and her rain, her blooming springAnd plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes,When, Isaac-like, the solitary saintWalks forth to meditate at even-tide,And think on her who thinks not for herself.Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concernsOf little worth, an idler in the best,If, author of no mischief and some good,He seek his proper happiness by meansThat may advance, but cannot hinder, thine.Nor, though he tread the secret path of life,Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease,Account him an encumbrance on the state,Receiving benefits, and rendering none.His sphere, though humble, if that humble sphereShine with his fair example, and though smallHis influence, if that influence all be spent In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife,In aiding helpless indigence, in worksFrom which at least a grateful few deriveSome taste of comfort in a world of woe;Then let the supercilious great confessHe serves his country, recompenses wellThe state, beneath the shadow of whose vineHe sits secure, and in the scale of lifeHolds no ignoble, though a slighted, place.The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen,Must drop indeed the hope of public praise;But he may boast, what few that win it can,That, if his country stand not by his skill,At least his follies have not wrought her fall.Polite Refinement offers him in vainHer golden tube, through which a sensual worldDraws gross impurity, and likes it well,The neat conveyance hiding all the offence.Not that he peevishly rejects a modeBecause that world adopts it. If it bearThe stamp and clear impression of good sense,And be not costly more than of true worth,He puts it on, and, for decorum sake,Can wear it e’en as gracefully as she.She judges of refinement by the eye,He by the test of conscience, and a heartNot soon deceived; aware that what is baseNo polish can make sterling; and that vice,Though well perfumed and elegantly dress’d,Like an unburied carcass trick’d with flowersIs but a garnish’d nuisance, fitter farFor cleanly riddance than for fair attire.So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,More golden than that age of fabled goldRenown’d in ancient song; not vex’d with careOr stain’d with guilt, beneficent, approvedOf God and man, and peaceful in its end.So glide my life away! and so, at last,My share of duties decently fulfill’d,May some disease, not tardy to performIts destined office, yet with gentle stroke,Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat,Beneath the turf that I have often trod.It shall not grieve me then that once, when call’dTo dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse,I play’d awhile, obedient to the fair,With that light task; but soon, to please her more,Whom flowers alone I knew would little please,Let fall the unfinish’d wreath, and roved for fruit;Roved far, and gather’d much: some harsh, ‘tis true,Pick’d from the thorns and briars of reproof,But wholesome, well-digested; grateful someTo palates that can taste immortal truth;Insipid else, and sure to be despised.But all is in His hand, whose praise I seek.In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,If he regard not, though divine the theme.‘Tis not in artful measures, in the chimeAnd idle tinkling of a minstrel’s lyre,To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart;Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,Whose approbation — prosper even mine.